The Attack of the Unimaginative Repeating Twat-Sloth
....

Bastard thing has struck 4 times this year so far...

I never usually stoop to this level.. infact I make a fucking POINT of NOT clicking, but if Scaryduck's Highest ever score can be a result of this questionable technique....

Click "I like this" if you want to see this vile beast eradicated.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:20, 11 replies)

It's Thursday - Mods Take Note
.
When deciding what to ask for the new QOTW can I suggest you look at:

www.b3ta.com/questions/questionsyoudliketoask/

Just an idea.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 1 May 2008, 3:47, 7 replies)

Bullocks..
.
Many moons ago, in the 80's, I was living in Alnwick, Northumberland. And this one day, I acquired a kite so I headed off to The Pastures to try it out.

The Pastures is the land overlooked by Alnwick Castle. A picturesque meadow full of butterflies and flowers. And bullocks.

Now bullocks are fairly sensible. They're peaceful male cows who've had their wedding tackle removed and are more interested in eating than attacking humans. I'd been down to The Pastures many times and had absolutely no trouble with them. Until today.

So, there I was, wandering across The Pastures with my shiny new kite. Bullocks looked at me and then ignore me, as is their wont.. (BTW - have you noticed how I start to ramble after a couple of glasses of wine and take ages to get to the point? Thought not..)

Anyway. So I found a nice little hill and started to unpack my kite. My big *blue* kite. Pay attention at the back, the colour is important. So I lay my kite out on the ground and started to slot the rods in. And noticed something. The bullocks.

The whole herd had gathered at the top of another rise, about 50 yards away, and were staring at me intently. I was a little freaked by this but thought they were just curious. So I carried on with my task. Rods inserted, string attached, I was ready to go. And those fucking bullocks were a lot closer now. They were sniffing the air, pawing the ground and looked distinctly unfriendly.

Bugger them. So I took my kite in my hand and started to run down the hill and threw the kite up into the air. The wind caught it and it soared joyously into the sky. And the bullocks went spastic. They let out a mass "MOOOOOOO" and charged down the hill towards me.

Now picture this if you can. Me, running down a hill, towing a kite, and, very close behind me and getting closer all the time, 50 very pissed off bullocks. About 20 tons of beef-on-the-hoof intent on catching me.

Fear gives you wings.

So I let go of the kite and legged it for the river. It was too far and the bullocks were too fast. I thought my time was up as the first bullocks caught up with me. And then, a miracle. They parted like the Red Sea and galloped to either side of me, now ignoring me and trying to catch the kite that was blowing away towards the castle.. WTF?

So I slowed to a stop and, lungs heaving, watched them all stop at the river and gaze wistfully at the departing kite. And then I heard the broom-broom of an approaching motor vehicle. It was a quad-bike, and sitting on it, tears rolling down his face, was Rory, an old farmer who I knew slightly.

It turned out that he'd watched the whole thing and knew why the bullocks had went apeshit.

"It was the colour of the kite" he said "It's exactly the same colour as the feed sacks that I use for their cattle cake. Silly buggers though that you were there to feed them and, when they saw their cattle cake taking off into he sky, thought they'd better try and catch it"....

And then we went for a pint. Me, to calm down, Rory, to tell as many people as he could about what he'd seen.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 13:08, 8 replies)

Evil
I'm sat in my room next to the window, overlooking the back garden and road next to our house. I'm sat here working on my thesis, now due in exactly three weeks and beginning to prey somewhat on my mind. I have been living, eating, sleeping (and possibly sh*tting) my thesis recently. As you can imagine life has been very, nay, ultra boring. To top off the fandango of enjoyment that has characterised my grey and dull existence the girl I love is not interested, making the whole past month or so an exercise in heart-wrenching academic futility.

So, to set the scene, this is the somewhat despondent, possibily even pessimistic, frame of mind that I currently inhabit. Next to a window.

Through this window I can see a tree in our back garden. This tree is not a paragon of trees. In fact its rather nonedescript. The tree equivalent of Alastair Darling, rather than a racy sycamore, or a hippy willow. In the tree live a family of grey squirrels. The squirrels are in the habit of frolicking in the garden and generally doing squirrely things. I'm sure that Squirrel Nutkin himself would be proud to call these squirrels his compatriots, proud in the knowledge that for nose twitching, acorn burying, tree climbing and general bushiness of tail these squirrels are at the forefront of the squirrelverse.

Anyway, I digress. My housemate just came back from class. As usual he brought his bike into the back garden, rolled it over to the squirrel tree, and started to lock it in place.

At which point a squirrel dropped out of the tree, like some squirrel version of rambo, and clung on to his bike helmet with all its tiny tiny might. My housemate was somewhat perplexed by this unforeseen turn of events, and began flapping at his own head to remove his new squirrely appendage.

This merely enrages the Die Hard Squirrel, which began attempting to chew through the helmet. My housemate takes this somewhat amiss and, becoming slightly concerned, begins to scream oh so softly. The squirrel doesn't really like this shrieking mannikin it appears to have attempted to bring down, and so redoubles is effort to gain unlicensed access to his brain. Now panicking, my housemate, with an audible toot of the sphincter, drops to the ground and rolls around the wet grass, trying to crush the squirrel. This, fortunately for him, works. The squirrel abandons ship post haste, and retreats, probably swearing, back up the tree. My housemate staggers inside covered in grass and mud, swearing he will kill the squirrel.

I'm pretty sure I can see the thing now, on a branch at the same level as my window. My bored mind posits that its sat there, a rolled up cigarette dangling from one corner of its mouth, swigging from a can of stella, flexing its arm muscles... the crazy Begbie squirrel of our garden.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 15:17, 10 replies)

Rocky, RIP
This topic reminds me, painfully, of Rocky, my prize fighting whelk. Rocky was raised on a whelk stud in North Ferriby on the banks of the Humber. We always knew he had the look of a killer, even when he was small. He'd be first to the trough at feeding time, shoving the others out of the way to get to his dinner.

We trained him well, exercising him every day. He shone amongst the other whelks - he was twice the size and five times as brave.

We got him in the ring for his first fight and he just floored the other opponent. I'd never seen a whelk move so fast. I was so proud of him.

Together we toured the country, fight after fight. Rocky would always triumph, always give everything he'd got to win the prize. He was unstoppable!

Then, one day, we saw an advert for the Mollusc Ultimate Fighting Championships. I was dubious, but I knew I couldn't hold him back, not if that was what he wanted. He rose through the ranks to the cheers of the spectators.

It came to the final. Rocky... didn't make it. His opponent, a shifty looking bivalve if ever there was one, battered him to the ground. Rocky didn't get up. He'd been beaten. It turned out that he was a great whelk warrior, but when it came to the Mollusc Ultimate Fighting Championships, he just didn't have the mussel.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:58, 16 replies)

This story is LONG
a long time ago, in a land far, far away...

There lived a beautiful princess, called alerella. She was an energetic, young sort, with flowing, golden locks, a skip in her step and a tune in her warm and caring heart.
She lived with her father, King Enzyme, who, despite losing his first wife during the birth of his gorgeous daughter, still loved her dearly. So much so, in fact, that he decided to re-marry another single parent, CHCB, so that little al could still have a mother-figure and a couple of siblings to play with.

Unfortunately, as the story goes, the new Mrs Enzyme was a tad too rigorous in the sack, and during a night of sex play (involving a winch, and several large, Barrymore-esque implements), the good King Enzyme had his pelvis broken in several places. Though, fortunately he'd lost consciousness during the act, because he was being smothered by CHCB's killer pussy at the time, and couldn't breathe, but sadly passed away later from internal bleeding and organ failure.
It was then that Queen CHCB revealed her true nature, and poor little alerella was locked away in a very high tower by her evil step sisters, Kaol and Bob Fossil, who then took her place as the heirs to the throne of the magical kingdom.

In her towery prison, little alerella started to lose her mind, she found that without company she could only keep herself entertained by muttering the most base jokes that she could think of, and eventually her madness descended into a coma, filled with dreams of bestiality, scat and the hope that some day a shining prince would come and rescue her.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the Magical Kingdom, the Brave Knight Sir Bert Monkeysex sat in a Goat Brothel, The Horny Nanny, regaling the legend that had been passed on to him by his mother and father. The tale of a beautiful princess locked away in a high tower who possessed a ring tighter than that of any goat the land had ever known.

'Nonsense!' The other mead drinkers mocked, 'Everybody knows that there is no such thing as a human being tighter than a goat.'
But Sir Bert knew in his heart that some day he would find his true love and they would live happily ever after.

Just then, as if purely to further the somewhat slightly lost point of the story, a strange man by the name of K2k6 entered, his whole appearance a shabby mess, and he was clearly out of breath, 'Someone must help! I have heard news of a beautiful princess trapped in a high tower by her evil step-mother and wicked step-sisters to the east!'

Sir Bert knew that this was his destiny calling him, he got to his feet, thanked the stranger, and left the stunned occupants of the goat brothel to their devices. Outside, he hopped upon his trusty steed, and lover, Billy the Kid, one of the finest goats the land had ever seen.
He rode off with the setting sun to his back at a steady gallop, with the sound of Billy's hooves matching the beating of the renewed passion in his heart, and the throbbing in his codpiece.

Upon arriving at the foot of the mighty tower, Sir Bert despatched of the evil queen and her two hideous offspring with one fell swoop of his dripping baguette, leaving their headless bodies for the likes of PJM and the PenguinOfDeath to have their wicked, necrophiliac way with.

The Brave Knight Sir Bert Monkeysex scaled the tower with ease, and awoke his beautiful princess bride with a one man bukkake marathon, that lasted several hours and left alerella looking like a plasterers radio in June.
The pair fell in love immediately, and bert set about trying to discover whether the legend was true, could she really be tighter than his faithful steed Billy the Goat...?

With al on her knees, Bert slowly began to insert his pulsating cock into her puckered anus, using no lubrication whatsoever.
By God! It was true! He couldn't believe what he was feeling as the inner parts of al's poo chute gripped him tighter than anything he'd ever felt before, and the orgasm built inside of him quickly.
At the moment of climax, al let out a small involuntary cough, causing his unbelievably snug sphincter to twitch, snapping off Bert's nob at the hilt.

'OH NOES!' He cried in agony, and began dancing around holding his crotch like a cowboy at a barn dance.

Al stitched up the wound, and the pair agreed that despite the fact that they would never be able to sexually satisfy each other properly again, they would still be married in the morning.

Unfortunately, on climbing back down the tower, they were both butted to death by Billy, who'd gone into a psychotic, jealous rage, and he stomped them both into the dirt, before sticking his horns into the evil sister, Kaol's lifeless bottom, and ending his own life with a quick snap of his neck.

Bloody animals, eh? Tragic.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:06, 57 replies)

In which Our Hero barks for his life.
For freshman orientation in college* we were split into groups of about a dozen and sent off into the woods with a pair of seniors to have a small adventure. You could choose to go hiking, climbing, or any number of things. I chose canoeing.

The group is seven dudes and seven gals, all of us young, fresh-faced, horny, and excited to be college students. Did I get laid on this trip? Did I, fuck. This is not the proper QOTW for that story anyway.

So on the way to the river the seniors are briefing us on the rules and the general plan for the trip. I have a bit of experience and the guy from Alaska has some, too, but otherwise the rest are mostly from small suburbs in the Midwest or big cities like Manhattan. We are in The Middle of Nowhere, New Hampshire, which means mountains, trees, oh - and moose. LOTS of moose.

Here's the thing about moose: they get aggressive when they're in heat, and they're bigger than any animal needs to ever be. HUGE. Yet they still have natural enemies. Or rather, HAD - before the local wolves were all killed off. So, how do you stop a moose from charging? Bark. You bark like a dog. This will trigger the beast's innate fear of wolves and scare it away. Not that we were likely to meet any on our trip, mind you, but it's useful information to have just in case.

The first day we head out and make camp at a makeshift air strip, which was really just a quarter-mile clearing in the trees. We stack the canoes like a log cabin and throw a tarp over top. Ta-daa! Something for all of us hot, tight-bodied teens to sleep under! You know, next to each other. At night, in the dark.

Follow dinner, frisbee, chatting on and such. One thing leads to another, and there we are all snuggled in our sleeping bags and Our Hero begins to doze off...

[whispering]"Jesse... wake up."
"Wha-"
"SHHHHHHHH! There's a moose!"

My first thought is of the blonde next to me. I can be brave and valiant in the face of danger! Surely I will get SO laid after all of this - WAIT. WE ARE UNDER SOME HEAVY CANOES.

[more whispering]
Is everyone awake?
Wait, I see it!
Where?
By the trees! I see it too!
There's two of them!

Finally, one of the seniors:
You guys - we may have to start barking. If they get close we should all bark at once.

Um. It got close. We barked. Loudly. All 14 of us (12 freshmen and two seniors). For our lives. FOR OUR LIVES.

*ruff! ruff!
*yip! yipyip!
*grrrr arf arf arf!

For at least 60 seconts, which is a long time to be doing something like that. Trust me. We eventually quieted down.

[whispering] (for no reason)
Are they gone?
Did it work?
Does anyone see anything?
I think they left.

Next thing I know, in the moonlight between the canoes, there is a tall and skinny leg DIRECTLY in front of me. I believe I am the one that started the second round.

*barkbarkbark!
*woof woof!
*[howling]

As I am barking my lungs out and bracing for the canoes to collapse on top of us, a large snout pokes through the tarp. A flashlight beam hits it, and it narrows. Eyes. Small. Antlers... pointy?

Suddenly there's multiple flashlights from outside the tent, and the senior holding the antelope head ducks into the tarp. GOTCHA!

Sons of bitches. Sons. Of Bitches.

The seniors pranked us BUT GOOD. It was an extra crew of seniors brining us some supplies for the next day. And from the beginning it was all a farce! They had to pull the Alaskan guy aside and tell him to play along. He told us later that the whole time we were whispering he had his head in the pillow and was ready to die from holding it in! To this day it's a better prank than I've ever pulled, and the best I've been victim to.

But they brought us homemade brownies and beer to make up for it, so we all had a small party there in the night. Um, I never got anywhere with that blonde girl. But wait, this is my story, right? What I meant was, I nailed her a week later and her roomate the week after. So all's well.


*You bet your ass I'm 'Merkin! "Color!" "Dollars!" Wanna fight about it?

*pop*!

Apologies for length, but I'm compensating for my short penis.
(jessemoya, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 6:34, 16 replies)

If you insist.
..I was racing against a friend during a late-night Thrash around the hills on our moutainbikes. We were riding through a stretch of fast and downhill field. We did it all the time.

This time was to be different: This time we were stoned, and it was dusk.

Leering at each other like slavering hounds with their heads out of the car window at 70mph, we pounded on the pedals and hurled ourselves onwards into oblivion.

We were moving at warp speed into the darkness. Scotty had nothing on us - He was right - His engines couldn't take any more - ours however were pushing us faster and faster until the world was a blur
- We were going faster than humanly possible
- We were laughing like maniacs
- The feeling of speed was stupendous
- the wind tore at our faces and clothes
- our own howls of delight were lost to the Rushing air
- the rushing air was ..... GONE!

And so was my mate.

And so was my bike.

And I was flying... and it wasn't deliberate. *Oh dear*
*mental shrug* "What goes up must come d..."

*Thud*

I was in pain. Really serious pain. I was alone in the dark, on the ground and clutching at my nuts which only a few seconds ago had been quite happy. Now they were drawing a lot of attention to themselves.... I was a bloody and mangled heap of hurt.

It was then that I heard the noise. A deep guttural gurgling-wheezing noise that had no right to exist. It was scaring the pap out of me until I realised where it was coming from... It was coming from me.

I tried to stop it, but failed. The biggest thing on my mind was that I was making an embarrassing wheezy gurgling noise and was powerless to stop. I was still wondering how to stop this incessant bubbly groaning, when the cause of my pain made itself apparent. Suddenly something considerably bigger and a lot more worrying took pole position in my brain:

Thundering towards me though the murkiness was a particularly irate Bull. It was making a noise that's hard to describe. "pissed off Bovine" doesn't quite cover it.
Try imagining the noise that a Gorilla would make if he had his hands cuffed to his ankles, was wearing a Ball-Gag, a pink tutu and nipple-clamps, as you shove a Giant, Freshly-boiled and steaming-hot Pineapple up his tightly puckered tea-towel holder, and knock it home with a croquet mallet... Make it louder, and then add Thundering hooves as a background noise....

Un-nerving? You don't know the half of it.

The Bull arrived in the same space that I was occupying roughly 2 seconds after I had first sighted it. It wasn't "just passing though".

*********

I can assure you that if you're going to ride hell-for-leather through a field in the dark, your pre-flight check-list should probably involve a cursory glance around for standing-and-sleeping cows.

Ride around them. Do not under any circumstances ride INTO them.
Especially if they are large bulls.
Especially if you're doing 40mph.

**************

I was caught in a one-Bull stampede. I rate this experience quite near the bottom on my scale of "bad experiences". Those who know me will confirm that this probably means it wasn't that enjoyable. You'll have heard the phrase "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick" On this occasion they'd have been wrong. Very wrong.

Eventually I managed to crawl away from my impromptu bovine lap-dance and found my mangled bike just as my mate re-appeared.

The damage list was surprisingly small
1 Kona bike frame bent out of shape (but still able to ride home)
1 snapped handlebar. (bull arse)
2 broken ribs, (initial bull impact)
1 fractured finger, (bull stampage)
2 bruised nuts, (handlebar stem)
1 torn Scrote. (see above)

During the one-on-one stampede I was convinced that I was going to die.
The Pain in my scrote for the next few days made me wish I had.

Apologies to the Farmer for arse-raping his bull with A mountain bike.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 11:49, 4 replies)

Slow Motion Mugging...
.
I was mugged by a goose once. In slow motion.

I was happily fishing one day, rod out in the water (stop sniggering Tourettee's!), enjoying a calm Autumn day. I was sitting on my wee fold-up stool, fishing bag to the left of me and plastic tub of maggots to the right. Then I heard it.

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle...

And I looked over. Standing next to me was an enormous grey goose with a couple of maggots wriggling in it's beak. It was staring straight ahead and pretending not to see me. So I looked back at the river.

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle.

Beak straight into my maggots again. As soon as I looked at it, it stared straight ahead with a

"wasn't me" look on it's beak.

Sigh.

So I got up and moved about 20 meters down the bank, set-up my gear, and sat back down on my stool.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mr Goose. He took one slow step sideways towards me. I looked at him and he froze. I looked away and he again took one slow step sideways.

It took him about half an hour to sneak 20 yards and then:

taptap-rattle-rattle-rattle

Head in my bait box again.

Enough was enough so I swung my plastic bag of sandwiches at his head and the bastard exploded into goosey fury. Hissing and snapping and flapping his wings, the bastard chased me up the tow path with me trying to run in chest waders. Then he went back and polished off my maggots and, to add insult to injury, nicked my sandwhiches as well.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 2:38, 7 replies)

I brought it upon myself.
I once bit the cat on the stomach. Think facehuggers from alien.

CLAMP.

Mum couldn't get her off because she was laughing too hard.
( ClanSoul, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 16:22, 3 replies)

Fight! Fight! Fight!



Apologies to whoever I ripped this off from....
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:48, 6 replies)

Free lunch
The question doesn't specify what the animals are attacking - so I'll give you a story about how our cat attacked someone's lunch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a Sunday in the early(ish) 1990's, around about lunchtime. You may remember it. Mum was in the kitchen doing something kitchenworthy when there was a clattering sound at the back door. Something was happening to the catflap.

She put down whatever she was doing to see the rear end of Python, one of the cats we had at the time, struggling to get through the catflap. This was odd: he was not a large cat. Inspection revealed that he was attempting the task backwards.

Cats do not normally go backwards through catflaps. Curious.

He wriggled a little. He was trying to drag something into the house. Something, by the looks of it, large and heavy. Mum grabbed the cat by the midriff and pulled. Python kept hold of whatever he was trying to bring home, but growled. He wasn't letting go.

The only thing to do was to open the back door, into which the flap was built, around the struggling feline to see what the fuss was about.

In his mouth, Python had a joint of beef. (Remember it was Sunday lunchtime.) It was nicely cooked and hot. It was as not far off as big as he was. Clearly, someone had taken it out of the oven, put it on the side to relax, looked away, and... WHOOSH! Gone.

Ah.

What to do?

We got on well with the neighbours on one side, but not so well with those on the other. We didn't really know those whose gardens backed onto ours all that well at all. All the same, Mum is an honourable sort. Starting with the neighbours we liked, she decided to start on a round of door-knocking.

"Um... were you having beef for lunch?"
"No. Why?"
"Oh... er... nothing. Bye!"

On to the neighbours on the other side. Same response. A quick walk around the block, then, to get to those round the back. Same response again.

The cat must have dragged the beef through the neighbours' gardens to get it back home, though. And my parents' back garden is, by suburban standards, reasonably large; the same applies to the neighbours' gardens. This means that he had managed probably about 30m at the shortest - and, likely as not, more - with a large, hot, beef joint in his maw.

Mum didn't ask at any of the other houses in the area. To this day, it's a mystery whose lunch Python attacked.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:40, 14 replies)

On the same camping trip that I mentioned earlier in this QOTW
My friends and I stumbled upon the Monkey World sanctuary, and decided to enter.
Basically the sanctuary is a clearing in some woods with a few Spidermonkeys in it somewhere near Dorset/Devon/Cornwall (I can't bloody remember, it was 10 years ago).

We decided to attach ourselves to a group of tourists and follow their guide around, he was an amiable chap and didn't mind us tagging along, even though we clearly hadn't paid for it.
Before the tour began, we were told not to make any form of eye contact with the monkeys, as this is taken as a sign of aggression. We were also told not to smile at the monkeys, as this too is a sign of aggression (incidentally, did you know that showing teeth as a sign of happiness is unique among humans? All other animals see it as the bearing of weapons). We were warned that if we saw a monkey making direct eye contact, showing it's teeth, attempting to make itself seem bigger by raising it's arms and standing upright, we were to look away.

So, the tour consisted of a two minute walk around the clearing, and an introduction to Alfred. Alfred, we were told was the most docile little Monkey in the sanctuary, apparently he was half-blind, extremely old, and half dead. We liked Alfred, he had a cute, fuzzy little face.
But Alfred DID NOT like us. Alfred was mean. He swung down from the canopy of trees above us, and fixed me with a mad, steely stare.
Remembering, but ignoring, the instructions we were given, I stared back. He showed me his yellow, rotten teeth, I showed him mine.
He raised himself up, stood upright, still staring his mad, scary grin at me, and raised his arms above his head.
I raised my arms and stood on my tippy-toes, there was no way I was backing down to Alfred, he was half-dead, what possible harm could he do?

He ran away, ran like the little simian coward that he was, and I laughed like a Hyena at my superior place in the ranking of the species of the world.

Til he came back later and threw shit in my Pimms.

Damn you Alfred..!

*shakes fist*

Monkey 1 - Human 0
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 10:00, 19 replies)

Greyhound flesh stripper
Oooh I love telling people this one.

I didn't see it coming up behind me, but it must have been running full tilt when it jumped me, punch of paws on one shoulder, claws into the back of my neck on the other side.

We had been waiting for a club to open, enjoying the August evening, the year I left school.

Now I was sprawled brokenly on the pavement with a stinking, sweat-streaked greyhound astride my chest, snapping at my face and tearing through my clothes.

Wee Johnny bottled it. Crunch. Right between the eyes.

In the ambulance I kept shouting about my face, my left eye was an impossible boiling ant-hill of pain and I thought the dog had torn my cheek away.

One of it's paws had cracked the orbit of my eye. Heavy dog. But my scraped and swollen face was not what prompted the hospital porter to grey, sway, and leave the room. I looked across the trolley-bed to where my hand should have been. The dog had lopped off my thumb.

Not neatly, not the punctuated shock of an absent digit, the bite had laid my palm open and pulled my thumb bones out like an anatomist's frog.

The metacarpal bone protruded from a stripped and splintered mess of flesh and pulpy, ruined muscle. They can't stitch a wound like that. It looked like a chicken thigh, pulled apart and positively marinated in claret.

Doctors don't like to amputate a thumb. Thumbless people have all sorts of difficulty. Thumbs fascilitate such varied tasks as typing, playing with an etch-a-sketch, and peeling an orange independently. I begged them not to amputate.

And that's how I ended up with the recognisable pieces of my thumb bound in sterile gauze, and sternly warned that if it started to rot, it had to come off.

I cleaned it, dressed it, wept over it, swore at it, cleaned it again aand after several weeks I was able to start physio. Rehabilitation for moveing and stretching. My favourite exercise was one I re-named the 'Pick it, flick-it, stick-it' manoeuvre.

It didn't fester, and have a truly Frankenstein-esque scar where the flesh knit naturally. Never got the feeling back though. Numb as a thumb.

Next time you walk past the bookie's window and see a glorious photo-finish poster of slavering, razor-jawed psyco-hounds closing in on the hare; think of my poor bloody thumb... and look behind you.

Length? It could have ended up just a little bit shorter.
(hahasnakes, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 20:06, 4 replies)

Raped by a bee
Having gotten home from work late, then having had a lengthy telephone conversation with my lovely girlfriend (with whom I shall soon be moving in - yay!), I found myself taking my evening bath at the unusually late hour of 01:30.

Being a short sighted person my contacts were nestled safely in their case, so my eyesight was soft, blurry and most definately not in focus as I probed the pedal of the pedal bin with my foot, nicely softened up by my long hot soak in the bath.

I felt a pinch on my big toe, which rapidly turned to a masive burning sensation and about 2-3 minutes of white hot agony before the adrenaline kicked in.

Two things of importance then occurred to me:

1) What the hell sort of bee was awake and ready to sting at bloody half one in the morning?! (By now it was crawling around dying on the bathroom floor, its guts attached to my toe via its sting - karma is a bitch for bees, I guess...)

2) What do I do with the sting?

The first question remains unanswerable, but for the second I turned to that portal of infallible knowledge (wikipedia) and, alongside the answer of what to do (pinch it out), some interesting info about bees and beestings.

It turns out that a bee sting is the malformed genitalia of a bee, since only the queen bee can reproduce. The sting is the tube down which eggs would roll if the bee it was attached to happened to be the queen.

So, the bee stuck its genitals, violently and unbidden, (definately without my consent) into my toe.

In short, I was raped. By a bee. In my toe. And it bloody hurt.

It could at least have used some lube...

Length and girth? Why thank you I have both, blessed as I am with an enormous schlong.
(Stuffed Chimp, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 22:24, 4 replies)

in a vision I beheld
four riders: grim-visaged War, Famine, plucking his own flesh, foul Pestilence, and last of all was Death himself.

And lo! Each did ride a llama, of purest white.

It was the Alapcalypse.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:08, 5 replies)

Bangladeshi wildlife
My friend John and I were in Bangladesh. We had planned on poking around a temple and then walking back to town, but we got lost in rare style. We found ourselves in a jungle (a jungle!) as the sun was setting. We decided that the only thing to do was cut down a bamboo tree with my two inch Swiss Army knife and use the foliage as a blanket. That was a bizarre night.

The next day was fairly nightmarish. No food, our 500ml bottle of water had been empty for a day, no change of clothes, no map, no compass, no real clue on how to survive in a strange country or indeed in anything other than an urban environment. We gave messages to each other to relay to our families if either of us didn't make it.

To cut a long story short, two days later we, thank goodness, were in a hotel in Chittagong. We splashed out on some luxury, and even managed to receive Indian MTV. I was watching a particularly fine advert for shampoo when I decided to inspect my shoulder to see why it was so itchy. There was an ugly looking brown spot. Scratching it caused it to flake off, but one corner tenaciously clinged to my skin. Growing suspicious, I examined it with the lens in my knife. The thing had legs. I was supporting a tick. John and I compiled a tick inventory. I was infested on my shoulder, just above my nipple, the soft spot between my earlobe and my head and a few other places.

Tugging them with tweezers didn't work, as their heads gripped very tightly. John, damn him a thousand times, at that point "remembered" that the way to get rid of ticks is to burn them off. Out came the matchbox.

You know that little sulphurous puff you get when you light a match? It was an appropriate signal for the hell that was to follow. Holding a lit match to your skin is never fun at the best of times, but holding one under your earlobe is simply awful. The worst moment came when I thought I had finished, but then realised that a tick was in fact sucking on my scrotum. I was being teabagged by an insect, and the only way to stop its advances was to hold a lit match to my balls. The bathroom filled with the smell of singed pubic hairs (and howls of laughter from John).

The story isn't finished yet. The next day we happened to come across some doctors, to whom we told our story. They smirked and shook their heads. They told us that burning a tick leaves its head buried under your skin. We could look forward to some nasty infections, and sure enough for months to come the bites were gushing pus. The one above my nipple wept so much that one day four months later someone pointed out that I appeared to be lactating.

Just for reference, you twist and pull at the same time. Hurts, but you remove the head. Bear that in mind the next time you visit a temple.
(I grew it myself, Thu 1 May 2008, 8:26, 5 replies)

It wasn't a rock...
A few years back I was out snorkelling with a friend of mine, on the hunt for abalone and rock lobsters, known locally as crayfish.

Click here for a picture of one such beast.

My friend spotted an especially large cray under a rock and decided that it would do nicely for dinner.

Now, most people around here who catch crayfish do so by means of a craypot, which is basically a large wicker basket with a funnel shaped opening that allows crays to get in, but not out. However, us divers regard this as cheating, and hold that the only honorable way to catch a cray is to dive beneath the surface and do battle with the creature yourself. Since crayfish tend to lurk in crevices under rocks, and retreat at the slightest sign of danger, they are quite hard to catch, especially when they're six metres down and you have to hold your breath while carefully extracting them.

My friend took a deep breath and dived down. I waited on top. And waited. And waited. Just as I was about to dive down and see if he was alright, he surfaced nearby, completely out of breath and with a large cray leg clamped tight around his index finger.

As he got his breath back, he told me what had happened. Most crays, when they sense that you're reaching for them, will simply shoot to the back of their hidey-hole and lurk there out of reach. This one, however, clearly pissed off with some bastard reaching into his home and trying to eat him, decided to fight back, and lunged at my friend's hand as he made a grab for it. Firmly latched on, it then used its tail to wedge itself even more firmly under the rock. This had the result that my friend was unable to remove the crayfish from the hole, and he was also unable to remove his hand from the crayfish. Running short on air, and faced with the embarrassing possibility of death by crustacean, he braced himself on the rock, and with an almighty heave tore the leg off the cray and made his escape.

After swimming back to shore, we were able to prise off the death-gripping claw, which my friend now keeps on his desk as a memento of the titanic struggle.

Yet somewhere out there, in the ocean deep, the cray with the missing leg still lurks, growing in size and hatred year after year, awaiting the day that my friend returns to the water, so that the two old enemies may join in their final battle...

...a battle to the death.

Apologies for length, but you're only allowed to take them if the carapace length from horns to rear is over 110mm.
(oball needs Satan more than he needs me, Thu 1 May 2008, 3:21, 1 reply)

Penguins can be mean little bastards, too.

( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 19:31, 6 replies)

The love that dare not speak it's name
My mate D spent some of his gap year working in a wild animal sanctuary in Malaysia.

One day he was happily cleaning the area next to the orangutan enclosure when suddenly a huge hairy orange hand reached through the bars of the enclosure and grabbed him round the back of head.

D froze, having been told the best thing to do if grabbed by one of the animals was not to struggle as most would then think you were dead and drop you.. However this didn't seem to have much of an effect as the orangutan then slowly but surely began to pull him towards the cage. D twisted his head round to come face-to-face with Omar, the biggest and most bad-ass of all the male orangutans in the sanctuary.

Now in fear of his life, either from being crushed against the cage or by simply being ripped apart, D then noticed something worse.

Omar was only holding him with one hand because he was furiously wanking himself silly with the other.

With the new threat of being horrifically raped, or at least getting a load of monkeyspunk in his hair D redoubled his efforts and managed to break free.

Apparently Omar just sat there and carried on but did have a rather disappointed look on his face.

D steered clear of the orangutan enclosure for the next few weeks.
(Milo Minderbinder, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 15:32, 2 replies)

Evil passion killing bunny
Seeing as this is a reposted QOTW, I'll grace it with a repost. It's bit like BBC2, without the license fee.

A year ago I was seeing a lass who had was babysitting a cute ickle bunnywabbit called "Rabbi", as named by his Jewish custodians. She invited me back for coffee and groping post date, so as the front door opened I was introduced to her temporary charge. Rabbi was a free range house rabbit, who'd been trained to use a cat litter tray and with his little twitchy nose and fluffy bunny tail was as cute as cute gets.

There is one issue though. I fucking hate rabbits. They never live up to their cute billing. As a general rule, they're grumpy, smelly and thick. Kind of like a rodent version of Sara Cox.

Not Rabbi. Oh no. He jauntily bounced over to me and sniffed my hand before jumping into my lap. Rabbi enjoyed being petted, so I made a fuss of him much to the delight of the lass, I felt my prejudice melting away as I ticked Rabbi's little bunny jowls.

More primal urges were calling however, so as my lady companion relaxed on her sofa I edged over and kissed her. Hands were grasping and caressing the backs of heads as the kissing grew in both intensity and promise. Oh yes. I was scripting a tale to rival the best of Mr Spencer when I felt a soft, furry "plop" in my lap.

Yes, hello Rabbi. Yes, you're very cute. Have a fuss. Amid some fawning giggles, Rabbi jumped back down to forage on the floor, bless his little furry socks.

Where was I? Ah yes...

A few snog-laden minutes later there's another warm furry presence in my lap and not the one I had in mind. Rabbi again.

Showing a multitasking ability far in advance of what can be reasonably expected for my gender, I carried on kissing and caressing. I felt a draught of cold air round my neck as the top button on my shirt was popped open.

Rabbi was seemingly most put out for he jumped into my lap a good five times while the kissing tempo increased. I did the honorable thing and ignored him, hoping he'd get the hint.

My hand brushed my thigh as I felt an urgent need to adjust my clothing in the face of such a pheromone induced assault.

What the fuck?

My hand brushed some hard, round marbles and I knew instantly why he'd been so keen to get into my lap. As passion was replaced by surprise and disgust, the mood changed sharply.

Rabbit shit isn't the most offensive substance known to man, but Rabbi had planned for this. Not only had he been shitting on me, he'd also been pissing on the cushion next to me, enraging my date a tad and utterly ruining the mood. Passion evapourated amongst a fluffy of disinfectant spray, wet cloths and oaths.

As I bade a chaste farewell half an hour later, I swear I heard sniggering from the furry little bastard.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:40, 1 reply)

Less of an attack, more a case of harassment
A few days ago, I was peacefully sitting in my room, reading the entire internet in an attempt to avoid doing the work I was supposed to be doing. My window was open a crack, enough to let out fag smoke, but not nearly enough for any winged beasties to find their way in.

So I thought.

At 9.13 a fly buzzed in. I immediately opened the window fully to allow the little git out. It did not immediately take me up on this offer of non-conflict and instead angrily circled the light fitting.

I decided to offer it a five minute period of grace to remove itself from my presence. Here I made a terrible error: negotiating with terrorists. It decided to flaunt my weakness by buzzing around my head. So I did what any reasonable human being would do and declared war. This fly would die.

I grabbed the two most important tools that any fly-hunter will need: a rolled-up newspaper and a can of deodorant.

But the bastard is clever. I am five foot three, and crap at jumping. Although my arms are disproportionately long, there was still no way I could reach the unreasonably high ceiling. The little bastard knew this, it was clever. So it stayed up there, and I waited for it to make a mistake.

Finally, it flew to the space on the ceiling just above the bed. I clambered up, and it was now within reach. It sat, knitting its little front legs, and I moved in for the kill.

It was fast, too. Riduculously fast. I succeeded in bringing down some of the Artex on the ceiling.

I considered combining a lighter with the can of deodorant, to fashion a flame-thrower. I think my airborne enemy must have developed psychic powers--perhaps it was a genetically modified military experiment--as it immediately retreated to a convenient spot at the top of the curtains.

Thankfully, it was within reach of the spray, so it was time for me to breach international law and use chemical weapons. I pressed the button, and my quarry began to fly erratically, suddenly dropping out of the air.

I rejoiced! It was dead! I had won! But where was its hairy little corpse?

I made possibly my silliest mistake. I did not look for the body, assuming it had dropped into the nether region of mess behind my desk.

Ten minutes later, it was time for the sequel. My fuzzy foe had faked his own death and was now severely pissed off. He returned to the onslaught of buzzing in my face, then retreating to higher ground.

It stayed on the ceiling for a while; perhaps it was asleep. By now blind with fury, I wheeled my wheely chair to beneath it, and climbed up, armed with my trusty copy of the Guardian. Wielding my weapon like a baseball bat, I took a swing.

And fell off my chair. Hands up if you could see that coming. With hindsight, I definitely could. So now I was angry and with a sore foot. I vowed that this winged demon would die a peasant's death. I would catch it, and pull its legs off. Perhaps its wings too. And I'm usually a pacifist.

I wish I could tell you that I succeeded in my plan for revenge. Or perhaps that the fly and I settled our differences and embarked upon a plan for world domination.

But the most depressing part of this tale is that there was no resolution. The two-hour battle had made me work up a thirst (not to mention that constantly spraying solvents around tends to dry out the old mouth a little), so I toddled off to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

My nemesis followed me out of the room and left via the kitchen window.

I suppose this would be equivalent to all the Nazis moving to the moon.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:43, 3 replies)

"Please don't poke the turtle"
More a combination of a grumpy animal and customer stupidity, but I thought I'd share.

I'm a fishkeeper and general fan of slightly more exotic pets (currently researching how to acquire an octopus)

As such, for several consecutive summer holidays I took a job in the Aquatics Department of a garden centre.

This aquatics department had (amongst other things) a large and extremely cantankerous snapping turtle who we'd acquired from someone who thought it was a terrapin until he neatly severed the last joint on her little finger.

Old Snappy used to like to wander a bit. He was deceptively strong and could lift the hood off his tank, but usually failed to haul his armoured ass over the side. Very occasionally you'd come in in the morning and he'd be sitting in the middle of the floor. Looking for stuff to maim, I assume.

On one memorable occasion I was opening up but had been beaten into the department by some cuntstomers. Cuntstomers who had found Snappy on one of his infrequent jaunts. Cuntstomers who had decided to poke and film Snappy with A FUCKING MOBILE PHONE.

Me: "Please step away from the turtle, sir"

Knob: "Why?"

Me: He's a snapping turtle. He's got a beak like a pair of bolt cutters and could happily shear your thumb off."

Knob: "Turtles can't hurt people and he's enjoying the attention" (WTF, it's a REPTILE, not a border collie for God's sake)
(To horrible children): "Look at the silly turtle!" *poke, poke*

SNAP.

Cue one utterly fucked mobile phone (straight through the screen. Good job, Snappy).

Cue one angry chav, and Snappy being gingerly returned home.

Cue one manager paying for replacement phone. And demanding bricks on top of Snappy's lid.

Snappy was eventually sold (after about 10 years in the shop) and now lives in a garage somewhere, I believe. Good old Snapster.

Apologies for length. Would have been shorter if Snappy had got hold of it properly....
(pharmatron Death or Scunthorpe? CHOOSE!!, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:32, 4 replies)

eels: not as bad as camels
For a few years in my mid-to-late 20's I had a saltwater aquarium, 75 gallons, quite nice. After I'd had it a while, I bought a snowflake moray eel. We fed the vegetarian fish little globs of algae and fish food, and we fed the lionfish live goldfish.

The moray was probably 10" when I bought him. A few months later he's doubled in size, and he knows that when the top of the tank opens, food is coming. So instead of waiting like a good little eel, he starts *darting* at the hole in the top of the tank. And he can launch himself a good six or seven inches out of the water. So I'm reduced to flinging open the top, dropping pellets and live fish in and withdrawing as quickly as possible. Until one day I was too slow, and that little fish-fucker sunk his needle-sharp teeth into my finger and just hung on. It hurt like fuck and all I could do was flail my bleeding finger around until he got annoyed and dropped off.

So after that, we netted him, bagged him, and took him back to the fish store, which bought him back for three time what we'd paid for him.

Also, he ate our hermit crab.
( madrabbit is fully prepared, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 5:49, 4 replies)

Result!
OK, so not precisely on topic but this has just made me almost punch the air:

news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/lancashire/7370637.stm

When animals attack, it seems that sometimes, just sometimes the justice system does the right thing...

I hope they fucking rot, the lot of them.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 16:56, 30 replies)

my next door neighbours dog
RIP.

called Jake, an german shephard cross.

He always would go mental when the postman walked up to the front door, as most dogs do.

Then one day, the postman approached the door - no noise, where was the dog he thought?

As the postman turned around there was a large crash. glass and wood flying everywhere... Jake had ran through the house, down the hall, skidded and ran straight through the front door, and was now standing between the postmans legs, looking somewhat bemused. Jake did nothing but turned around and walked back through the hole in the door lookiing a little sorry for homself. It seems now he had the postamn he didnt kknow what to do with him.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:19, Reply)

My sister...
...was bitten by a møøse. Møøse bites can be quite painful.


Olaf Prøt
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 22:57, 3 replies)

Nearly mauled to death in India / sexual Predators
Okay a few years ago, me and the then Mrs-Lizard had taken a few months off work to visit India on a bit of a backpacking mission.

Lots of things went wrong (but most are for another QOW), but I have to mention the bit were I came off my scooter and nearly broke my hip.
I braved it and was left with a deep gash in my hip/stomach area, skinned knees and elbows, battered ankles and bruised bones, the worst being my hip bone. AGONY!
But I roughed it and refused to visit a hospital (stupidly/bravely?)

So anyhow, a few weeks later I was still limping along quite badly, but was capable of carrying my rucksack and could get about... so we found ourselves in a town called Gokarna, which is quite an amazing place, but was filled with the usual cows, scruffy cats and dogs, mosquito's and hornets.

At first they weren't the problem, it was a certain bookstore owner who invited us into going back to his house and eat with him and his family. So we go back (we'd known him for two days and he seemed friendly enough).
We ate with him, his brother and cousin, and all was good, until I realised I was the only one who was talking.
They had all taken a big interest in my girlfriend after getting us VERY stoned with an after-meal joint.

I mean very stoned off ONE joint (it was something called afghan charas!), and then I got the fear (as if being thousands of miles from any semblance of your own culture, not knowing if these guys were just being friendly or trying to take advantage...) and I was in no position to fight any of them, what with my injuries.
Anyway, the brother and the cousin left the room and locked me, her and the bookstore guy alone.

So to cut a long story short, he started telling me he had a gun... we were locked in his house!
He was a nutter.
But somehow after we insisted that we had to leave (for maybe the twentieth time of asking) and he embraced my girlfriend in a Loooong hug, he unlocked the door and let us go....

Very stoned, injured and paranoid and now lost.

Because he originally walked us to the house, we were walking back alone, in a strange Indian town at 2AM in the dark.

The bookstore guy even went one step further to fuck things up for us by giving us fake drections back to the guesthouse, but i trusted my instincts and ignored his directions and luckily limped back to the main road.
So all was good, we breathed a HUGE sigh of relief and shuffled on home...

along the dark and empty streets....

Except for the distant sounds of barking, and strange black shaped crawling from the shadows in everey direction, from gutters and alleyways...

Wild street dogs.

During the day, thes poor bastards are baking in the heat, living on scraps of food and generally being beaten and pushed away by the busy Indians.

But at night... these fuckers ruled the streets.

And there we were, already freaked out, stoned and injured and we were being followed and circled by a dozen of these fuckers.

My first instinct was to find a rock or a branch or anything, but we just so happened to be in the only place in India that contained no stones...

That was it... I'd go down fighting, cos just one bite would have given me rabies... So as they got within a few feet, growling, teeth-baring distance...

We were suddenly engulfed in white light and a large crash and a yelp and chaos.
We looked around and the dogs had scattered, and there were big bits of wood and a stunned dog next to us... we turned to the light.

Nope it wasn't an angel, it was hotel porter who had come out to see what all the barking was about, to find us two about two seconds away from a good mauling. So being the legend that he was, he whacked on all the lights and threw a wooden chair into their midst.

Our hero.

We were th-is far from death.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 22:06, Reply)

non existent snake attack
when i was a nipper i wasn't allowed any pets, my mum was a bit of a Hyacinth Bucket type. We were the only people on our council estate that had a 'cloak room' everyone else had a a 'loaby press' or hall cupboard to you.

So when i trotted off to college I shared a flat with two other long suffering blokes who were at best 'indifferent' to pets. i quickly turned into a veritable jonny morris - greatly encouraged by the future Mrs Spimf who bought me two kittens, then an aquarium then one fine day...

an Argentinean red tailed boa constrictor quickly followed by a Burmese python. i should stress that these creatures were docile to the point of dull and more importantly entirely NON venomous

in my final year Mrs Spimf and i were spending more time together and one of the flat-mates was getting on my tits so i got my own place (see my post : annoying spotty prick )

As i was moving in to my new flat this guy approached me, now allow me a moment to describe this bloke: dull green velour tight fitting long-sleeved top, black jogging pants tucked into boots. sideburns cut to a v shaped point. it took me all of two seconds to realise this bloke was dressed as captain kirk.

he shook my hand and proclaimed with great pride "hello, my names Chris and I'm an artist" for that my internal babel fish translated "hello. I'm your neighbor and I'm as mad as a fucking battenburg"

we got to know the chris 'the artist' a bit better and realized 'delusional piss artist' might have been a better moniker - but he seemed harmless enough. I should add the only time i ever saw him paint was when he had become a bit maudlin about his ex - got pissed and wrote in 8 foot high letters along our street (NAME OF EX BINT) I STILL LOVE YOU! he would come up for a beer and a chat now and then and was most interested in my snakes, who had got quite large by now - Coco the burmese python being around 7 feet long by now and as thick as your forearm, Basil the Boa a fair bit smaller. so not exactly 'monster snake man-eating size' we discussed at length that they were NON venomous which seemed to satisfy chris the artist particularly when i showed him some defrosted rats bought from the pet suppliers being fed to them.

Anyhoo one fine summers evening i was enjoying more than a few beers at home and mrs spimf decided to retire to bed. pissed and bored i decided to mist some water using a plant sprayer into the snake vivarium - which i had built myself, was as large as a chest freezer and had some nice smoked glass sliding doors.

next thing i know I'm coming round with this Chris 'the artist' standing over me with a huge fuck off hunting knife clutching an SAS Survival Handbook

"what the fuck are you doing in here and what the FUCK are you doing with that knife"

"looking for puncture wounds" he said quite calmly. I should point out i was also only wearing a pair of boxer shorts (warm summer evening) and was beginning to feel quite perturbed by events.

"WHAT!!!" what fucking puncture wounds?

then mrs spimf intervened

she had heard a loud thud and came in to find me out cold with the snakes nosing their slithery way out of the tank and over me. she gave me a shake and couldn't wake me so had panicked somewhat and decided to go and get "Chris the artists help".

I turns out somehow in my pissed up state i managed to get some water on the lighting or heating electrics and got a slight belt. however when i recoiled i must have battered my noggin on the edge of the vivarium and knocked myself out. (big bruise on forehead and shorted out lights in tank - sherlock)

so our self styled bohemian star trekking survivalist nutter of a neighbour - presumably who had long been prepared for such an emergency had sprung into action with a bloody rambo knife and some camouflage fetishists handbook open at the page on dealing with venomous snake bites.

like i say mad as a fucking battenburg
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:03, 6 replies)

You know that bit with the facehugger in Aliens
It amazes me how many different habits people have when sleeping, some like the windows open, doors closed, doors open, no pillow, big pillow, no light, little bit of light, music on (a friend of mine used to fall asleep to Megadeth on his walkman), pyjamas, nightie you get the idea... For me, I like complete darkness and everything closed tight. I used to have the window open a little bit, but since that time I woke up with a giant (5cm) cockroach on my chin that ain't happening no more. I also sleep as God intended: Omnipotent er I mean in the nudie. So anyway the whole house is dark, all doors are closed and the only thing stirring is my bladder. It is rather upset that I've turned it into some sort of pikey hot water bottle through the night and it is demanding to be emptied.
Now I know my house quite well, as you'd expect. It's a single floor and the bathroom is right down the other end of the house. Why would I bother turning on the light eh? The house is free from random chairs, shin killing coffee tables and upturned plugs. Only people in the UK are nodding knowingly at that one: sometime in the late 30's a guy came to see the government and said "right chaps we've got these smooth two prong round things that Johnny foreigner uses or I've got this flat backed three pronged beauty, and look I've sharpened the ends to dull points, England: we have a winner".
Right where was I, yeah so I use my internal memory map of the house to navigate to the bathroom: out of bedroom door, pace, pace, pace, squeaky floorboard, four more paces to the door to the lounge, open door...and then...and then something happens which doesn't usually happen. You know that bit with the facehugger in Aliens? As it runs about trying to hug face it makes a funny noise halfway between a pattering of a lobster on steroids and the sound of skin being cut open. Not generally a welcome sound, even less when you hear it accompanying a dark shadow moving quickly on the other side of the room. Now I don't really live in a rough area, but it used to be, so all the windows have bars and the doors are deadlocked. The only weak point is, you guessed it, the one bathroom. It sits on the other side of the main rear door in a little sort of added on annex which has a flimsy patio door to the outside. Now I'm not a big brave person or anything like that, but I was half asleep and I do have guinea pigs which live in the house (in hutches) so I figured one of two things had happened:
I'm imagining it or:
one of the piggies has got loose and is doing it's best to make me crap my pants (ha - tough luck piggy, I sleep nudie), at no point do I assume there is a facehugger in my house. So 'bugger it' I think, and walk through the lounge...through the open plan kitchen, unlock the big dead bolt door into the annex and go into the loo.
I have a lovely wee.
I walk back through kitchen into the lounge, no point in putting the light on. When I get to the hallway I hear that weird scritch scritch sound as before but this time it's ahead of me. Hmm odd, I turn, check the animals are safely in there hutch (there is a little bit of twilight in the lounge), they are. So I walk back to the bedroom and stop at the doorway peering into the gloom. The noise has now changed. It's no longer the scritch scritch, it's more of a scrabble scrabble, and it's loud, I mean LOUD. I am now severely freaked with a complete case of 'The Fear'. My partner has woken up with the noise and is wondering how I can be standing in the bedroom doorway but making a noise from the other corner.
This is it. I turn on the light. For a moment we're all stunned. None of us can see a damn thing because of the bright light. Slowly the high contrast fades and my eyes hurt as the pupils contract to pin pricks. I can see the walls, the bed, and my partner staring up at me with a very concerned (angry) face. Oh, also there is a honking great rat sat on top of the covers. It’s the size of Belgium. It's looking at me. It's not looking happy. It looks like it wants to eat my face. Fortunately my partners face is much closer. Hey, I didn't say it was fortunate for everyone.
So what do I do? I'm blocking his only exit and my partner is still looking at me and not at the creature 8 inches away. You know when you say to someone "Don't turn around" or "don't move while I get this thing of your head" or "Don't freak out but I think its fangs are in you" they invariably turn round or move or like scream incoherently about not liking fangs. So I don't say a thing; I move my eyes and lift my eyebrow to indicate that I'm staring at something of considerable interest. My partners gaze follows.
Then there's like this giant rat eating my face.

My partner contests that a simple knee jerk reaction to pull on the duvet caused the creature to be catapulted in my direction. I know better, he had taken a liking to my pretty eyes. I like my eyes too, admittedly I don't use them as often as I should, like going to the toilet in the middle of the night, but all in all I like my eyes in my face and not in a rat.

Ratty or ARRRRRGGGHGHHGJESUSGETIMOFFGETHIMOFF as I like to call him, made a bolt down the hall and is currently hiding out somewhere in the lounge. Quite frankly how we can't find something of his size is stupefying.
...it's the next evening now; I have a humane trap set up in the lounge. I'm wishing this desk had a glass surface so I could see if anything was coming near my feet. When I've finished typing this I'm off to eBay for a bedpan.

no apologies, for size is important

edit: now with extra carriage returns!
( KittyWaste lives at Sleepingplanet.com, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 23:27, 5 replies)

Well, they haven't actually attacked YET but it can only be a matter of time...
I'm being stalked by ladybirds. They're clearly besotted with me as a result of my campaigning for the male ones to be called blokeychaps and have decided that we must be together.

All through the winter there have been ladybirds around. Just one or two, but regularly appearing when I don't expect it. Cooking a meal? There's one on the wall, high above the cooker. Brushing my teeth? There's one near the tap. Getting dressed? Oh look, one on the windowsill. Aren't they supposed to die over winter? These didn't. I even found one in the car once... maybe it's always the same few, I don't know.

Last night I found a dead one in the bathroom, and noticed that the spots on its back made a heart shape. I can only assume that this means things have taken a turn for the sinister, so now I'm watching my back; as soon as they realise that I'm not interested in creating the world's first Kennybird with them I'm doomed.

Remember - when my cold lifeless body is found covered only in a shiny red and black chitinous substance, you read it here first.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 15:15, 7 replies)

Black and Yellow Flying Git-Bastards
Wasps. I have no great phobia of the flying skinheads, I have been stung a few times and while it wasn't pleasant, it was no great drama.

However.

Back in the mists of time, I lived in a big old house on the outskirts of Embra. The garden lead down a fair old gradient, so was terraced. The very bottom level had fallen into disuse after a few years of 'Good Life' style veg/fruit production. This meant that every now and then it started to resemble Heart of Darkness type jungle. As Osok Senior was away working, any chopping/hacking that could possible involve agonising injury was down to me.

After a some time slashing away like a manic Freddy Kruger clone, I wasn't getting far. Scottish brambles in those days had a tensile strength greater than steel.

A-Ha, thinks I, I'll just go and fire up the trusty strimmer.

That broke after about five minutes, but I was definitely making an impression. Right, you bastards, thinks I, lawnmower time. I'll just pick you up, plonk you on top of the undergrowth and let you chew your way down to ground level. At this point I should have noticed (a) quite a lot of wasp activity and (b) an old tarpaulin, partly grown over with grass/brambles that appeared to date from the Bronze Age.

Lawnmower. Whirrrgrunchgrunchgrunch BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

"Heavens to Murgatroyd" said I, "I've just hacked my way into an enormous fucking wasp's nest that was concealed by that tarp. I wonder what my considered course of action should be?"

Or, with a lower level of lie, "WASPS! AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!" I was off down the garden like Jesse Owens, with the Wasp Luftwaffe in full-on annoyed mode in hot pursuit. After about 30 yards I decided that it'd be safe to stop. Ooops.

"STILL WASPS! AAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGGHH" Off I sprinted, in the direction of the river which was conveniently placed (The Water of Leith if you're interested). Skidding to a halt at the top of the bank, I contemplated the ten foot drop into the murky water, and gave myself a mental slap.

"Look, they're not killer bees, they're miles back, and you're not jumping in the fucking river"

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ

"OWFUCKOWYABASTARDS"

100 yards of flailing madly while running down a riverbank path shrieking "WAAAAASPS!" later, the little bastards finally gave up.

I decided at that point to respect my insectoid neighbours and steer a wide berth....did I bollocks. Half a gallon of Four Star strategically applied....WHOOOOOMMPH!





BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ


"OWOWOWYAWEECUNTSOW"

Took THREE petrol bombings to take the fuckers out once and for all.

I might have ended up stung, jabbed, lightly toasted, reeking of petrol and with a charred smoking crater for a garden, but I WON!

They came back next year. I left home.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:34, 6 replies)

Our first cat
was a seriously scary wee bugger. Total psycho, he squared up to everything in the neighbourhood (including the alsatian along the street and the odd wandering fox).

His favourite trick was to lie in wait behind the cat flap and attack the postie's legs while he delivered the mail. The paperboy wised up a bit quicker and used to stand to the side.

We couldn't let it go on, so one morning I locked the cat flap and watched. The postie walked down the path, and lifted the letterbox flap. The cat launched himself forward and ...

*clunk*

His head impacted the cat flap and he sorted of somersaulted over himself. Once I'd stopped laughing (and the postie was at a safe distance) I opened the cat flap and he slowly pushed it open with his paw. Then shot me a filthy look and disappeared for the rest of the day.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:51, Reply)

Not destined for the table.
Whilst walking along the clifftop fields near Durdle Dor in Dorset I came across a sheep laying on it's side and shaking slightly. I tried to coax it up but it didn't really respond so I put my arms around it and tried to lift it up, which it got annoyed with and tried to bite me. It felt wet and strange underneath and when I'd managed to yank it to its feet realised that its underside was rotting away and it's intestines were hanging out swarming with maggots. My hands had gone through its flesh into its organs which promptly spilled out and the sheep died on the spot.
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 14:25, 16 replies)

On The Grounds
That I'm slightly pissed I'll tell you about the "waay-haay" crabs.

I don't know what their real name is so I christened them the "waay-haay" crabs.

I was on holiday in Barbados when I discovered them. I was wandering along the beach and the tide was coming in. And I noticed a big rock, about ten meters out, that was absolutely covered in wee crabs. As the tide rose higher, teh crabs retreated (I mean crabs scared of water! Who'd a thought it?) until there was no more room at the top of the rock. And so they had to do something. Fast.

So the first little bugger sidled down the rock after a retreating wave, gathered it's little legs together and then WAY-HAAAY!!! Jumped about three feet to the next rock. Then, as if a dam had burst, all of his mates followed....

Up until then I didn't know crabs *could* jump. So, after that, I made it a point to try and catch the rising of the tide to watch the "waay-haay" crabs....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 13:50, 4 replies)

Mugged by a monkey
Before I had my digestive tract raped in Phnom Penh last autumn (see www.b3ta.com/questions/shitstories2/post135111), we stopped off in Siem Riep for a few days, to wander around the temples, the nearby floating villages, and the deep-fried-insect eateries around various parts of the town.

Our first day there was spent, appropriately enough, watching the sun rise over Angkor Wat. We got there at 5am when it was still pitch black, and made our way over the bridge into the temple complex by torchlight. There were quite a few people there, and there was an audible hum of excitement as the looming presence of the towers became discernible against the slowly-lightening sky.

And so on and so forth. Because, spectacular as that all was, watching the great sun-god ushing his flaming dungball of incandescent shit across the sky doesn't have anything to do with animal attacks.

No, that came later that morning. The sun, defying all expectations, had successfully risen, and was busy heating up the misty citadel. Having got up rather early to watch the dawn, my group (there were 10 of us, including the guy we'd hired to show us around for the day) settled down on some steps around the side of the main temple on our own, facing onto the forest, to eat the breakfast provided by the hotel.

Which turned out to be a stale baguette and a hardboiled egg. Yum.

As we started breaking out the food, we noticed that there were a few macaque monkeys sitting on various roofs, watching us. A couple were timidly edging forwards, as if to investigate us and say hello. Awww, we thought, how sweet.

Wrong.

Monkeys were coming from all directions, and quickly outnumbered us. They were all fairly small, but when one sat next to us and noncholantly yawned, displaying some impressive-looking fangs, we decided to move somewhere where there were a few more humans to keep us company.

Then the monkey-king came along. He was the same height as the others, but twice the weight: incredibly solid and muscular looking, and not timid at all. He came within a few feet of us, and looked at us all meaningfully. He kept looking at me. He then ran at me, teeth bared. One hell of a scary moment. I did what any self-assured young woman would do in this situation: screamed like a little girl and threw my hardboiled egg, which I'd just finished shelling, at his head. Whereupon he stopped, picked up the egg, peeled off the white, and ate the yolk. Then he ran away. I swear I could hear him sniggering.

Bastard monkey. Mugging me for an egg.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 16:02, 17 replies)

Black Beauty
For a mate's birthday recently a group of us gentlemen decided to do what gentlemen of leisure do - head off for a night on the tables of the Tees Valley's finest casino... the name of which escapes me.

A night of merrily losing money and sobriety was had by all, but in the minibus on the way home one of the party, G, decided he had to be violently sick IMMEDIATELY RIGHT NOW. Nothing especially noteworthy about that, we thought, as we pulled over on the hard shoulder to let him paint his shoes. G runs up the embankment, stumbles to his knees and has just started throwing up when a horse with more than a passing resemblance to Black Beauty appears out of the darkness beyond the fence. BB seems quite excited by G's predicament, and after much whinnying and suchlike proceeds, for reasons known only to himself, to cock a leg and let loose a frankly magnificent stream of piss over G's hunched, shuddering, still puking frame.

He walked the rest of the way home.
(sinbad, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 19:57, 2 replies)

rabbits are clever, vicious bastards.
A lot of them have actually stopped getting into people's gardens and started to hack into people's
websites instead.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 3:41, 1 reply)

There's a moos loose aboot the hoos
Another from the young, carefree and innocent days in Embra in the late 70s/early 80s.

As previously mentioned,we owned what can only be described as a BFO Tomcat. Black furry death to the local fluffy population. It got so bad that we had a chart of 'British Small Mammals' in the kitchen to ID his prey, and at one stage were playing Dead Fluffy Bingo ("A Mole! I win!). After the hare 'incident' this was upgraded to 'British Mammals'.

Soo, said feline death machine was lurking in the hall, growling slightly, and staring intently at the corner. After being tripped over a few times,we ignored him.

For some reason, something had to be fetched from the garden. Mini-osok is despatched. Grumbling, I drag my wellies out (growling increases in volume), and don the first. As I am balanced on one leg, about to stick the second boot on, I notice that he is also dribbling slightly and staring at me as if I was a pallet of Whiskas.

Second boot. What the... there is some sort of obstruction...some sort of furry obstruction....some sort of furry bitey obstruction with razor sharp teeth OWOWOWMUUUUM!

On the spot a new dance sensation was created as I spun like a dervish, attempting to kick the bitey welly off, while the furry bitey thing gnawed away and the cat sat there sniggering.

Finally, the welly sails off and bounces off the wall, dislodging the somewhat confused...FIELD MOUSE OF DOOM!

Silence. I look at the mouse. The mouse looks back. My semi-hysterical mother draws breath. The cat licks it's lips...and leaps.

A sort of human/mouse juggling act was born - GrabOWDropGrabOWDropGrab etc, while the cat was wrestled to the ground and placed in a restraint position, howling slightly.

In the end, we chased the mouse back into the welly and slung it into the garden. We did give it a head start before releasing the cat, however.

The cat, naturally, saunters off with a sneer. And brings back a frog.

I now check my wellies.

And steer clear of Field Mice. They might be small, but they'll 'ave you in a second.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 9:58, 2 replies)

My cat gets possessed
Normally a docile creature, you can tell when he's been at the ouija board and he's had his body taken over by an evil psychokiller spiritgoblin. It's in the eyes:


( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 9:55, 4 replies)

My friend...
...was stabbed in the head with a pigeon. For real. By a man at the bus-stop.
(duts Optimus whut?, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 21:05, 4 replies)

Not quite an attack, but...
My parents had a very affectionate cat called Pud. When he was happy he would dribble. One morning Pud walked into my bedroom, jumped onto my bed, and as I said "hello, Pud!" he dribbled in my mouth. His dribble was quite thick and tasted a bit fishy. I didn't like it.
(nasalhair The Twix guy!, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:59, 1 reply)

The Spurting of the Sea-Penis
Well, it's got to be good with a title like that...
Some years ago I was in Kenya.
I got on a boat tour there, and we chugged out to sea a little way, to a rocky area that had a coral reef down the side of it.

As it was low tide, we got out of the boat, and went for a wander about on top of the rocks, having a look at the wierd and wonderful animals lurking in the pools there.

I found one of these:
www.wwf.org.hk/images/hoihawan/gallery/seashore/1.-Beige-sea-cucumber_ph.jpg

The most phallic creature I've ever seen.
I picked it up, and it spurted a thick stream of a white and ropey fluid, which was caught on the breeze, and splattered across the leg of a nearby 'merkin tourist.

She shot a look of pure venom at me, as I was standing there laughing my arse off, holding a huge brown penis-shaped object.

Turns out that Sea Cucumbers can squirt the stuff as a defence mechanism, and it gums up whatever is trying to attack it.

Glad I wasn't pointing it myself.
( Cawl, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:41, 8 replies)

When animals attack, attack right back
Back when I was 8 and still living in the states we lived next door to a family that kept as a pet a huge (at the time anyway, i was only little) German Alsation. This thing was massive, loud and really scary - terrifying actually, and the neighbour used to let it out when me and my brother were out back playing in our yard knowing full well that it would scare us both back inside (bastard).

My little brother was great friends with the neighbours youngest at the time so would often go over to spend time out in the back of their yard playing whatever took the imagination of 6 year olds at the time (twatting each-other with sticks if i remember), while I was in our own yard playing on the swing set launching myself off and seeing how far i could go.

As the afternoon drew on, the neighbour decided it was time to let the dog out for his afternoon recreational without checking to see if anyone was in the back yard (the thing was kept locked in it's own room in that house because it had a habit of trying to eat their children if given any chance). Out it went, straight for my brother, where it promtly sank it's teeth into his wrist and wouldn't let go.

The noise was terrible, like a shrill little girl, only higher.

Seeing this, I did what any big brother would do; I jumped the fence and ran at the dog, intent on making it let go (so I wasn't very bright). I ran up and pushed it, it growled at me, so i kicked it (FYI I don't condone this sort of behaviour against animals, but this thing was a monster and a hellion so I still don't feel bad about what I did). It yelped from the kick and released my brother, only to turn and grab hold of me by the arm (left one, right at the elbow, still have the scar).

Now there I was pinned under a great big German Alsation (it was bigger than me and heavier) being used as a chew toy. I couldn't kick it as my legs wouldn't reach. I couldn't punch it as I had (and still do) almost no upper body strength to speak of. Only one course was left open to me.

I bit the f*cker, hard, and didn't let go even after it had released me.

By this time both the neighbours and my parents were rushing out to try and get hold of the situation, but even when the adults came I wouldn't let go, I had this thing yelping like a puppy and trying to get loose and I just bit harder. Eventually we are seperated and the dog bolts inside to the safety of it's own room, where it promptly wets itself. From that day on that dog never once held any fear for me, and would refuse to go out in the yard if it heard my voice outside.

I always wondered if I left any lasting physical marks on the dog, like the scar he gave me..... hard to tell under all that fur.

Length? About 5 minutes of screaming and yelping and blood and tears..... I do aim to please.
(UncleChuckles "Cthulhu fhtagn", Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:58, 1 reply)

Taste the blood of Cat-ula
Many years ago, I'd had an ongoing battle chasing away cats eating absentee landlady's cat's food (making him a nervous wreck). Got home one night to find landlady cat cowering and a huge growling spiky haired black monster in a corner of the kitchen. I decided to grab the bastard and chuck it out of the cat flap.

Except this one didn't just wriggle like the other cats I'd thrown out. It bit the back of my neck, clawed at my face and arms and then sank its teeth in to my left hand, over my lower thumb. And wouldn't let go.

Failing to prise its jaws open, I managed to turn on the kitchen tap and held Lucifer's head under it. Still wouldn't let go. With the sink filling up with water, in desperation I plunged Beelzebub's head under. Eventually it unclamped and squirmed back to the corner. I opened the back door, grabbed Satan by the scruff and flung it out, slamming the door behind it.

And then I noticed the blood.

Running down the back door from my hand, splashes of it all over the kitchen floor, sink, and cabinets. I stood there dripping for a minute, then pulled myself together and went to the local hospital (walking distance around the corner).

Casualty cleanup, bandages, painkillers and a tetanus shot later, I made it home around 2am. Realising the next day that I couldn't actually use my hands, I called in sick to work. Cue unsympathetic colleagues ("You got bitten by a puddy-tat!? Awwww!!!!"), angry boss threatening to drive round to drag me in etc.

Three days later I made it back to work. Cue suddenly sympathetic colleagues upon seeing my swollen face, arms and bandages asking questions like "What the hell happened to you?" "Did you get beaten up?" "Why did you say you'd been bitten by a cat?"

The best bit was that a week everything was getting better, except my thumb knuckle- still painful, nearly the size of a ping-pong ball and scabbing over in a strange, hard shiny way. Back to casualty. "Nothing wrong with it", they lied. "Take some ibuprofen", they dismissed.

I went home, downed some vodka, gritted my teeth and proceeded with amateur thumb surgery using tweezers, a needle and a razorblade. After sufficient opening up of shiny knuckle scab, out pop two tiny, spiky black cat hairs. Half an hour after removing them, my thumb was almost back to normal size. Cat hairs embedded in wounds don’t show up on x-rays, it would seem.

I love cats by the way. I have three and I’d choose them over most people I know.
( The Vomiting Hitchhiker Mephistopheles is such a mouthful in Manhattan, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 10:53, 1 reply)

The sexual awakening of chickenlady (another long one)
(an official tale from the magical land of Far, far away. As you're all b3tans, and this is a long story, you may wish to skip to the ****s below)

Among the hills and fields of the most rural parts of the green and pleasant land that we call Far, far away, there stood a small, ramshackle farmhouse. This particular farmhouse was home to a dozen or so young ladies each named after their parents' (dead obviously, as is always the case with fairy tales, these ones died in a tragic cribbage accident) favourite poultry, there was turkeygirl, pheasantwoman, peacockfemale, pigeonbird... some others, and the youngest and most bashful of them all, chickenlady.

chickenlady was as beautiful as she was shy, with lots of curly, brown locks of hair (fortuntately most of which were on her head), a cute little face with sparkly little chicken eyes and the kind of toned, svelte body that would turn most men into gibbering, drooling, sun dials.
She would say nary a word to anyone, prefering instead to lose herself in the latest Jilly Cooper or Mills & Boon, getting her rocks off single-handedly at every mention of a 'stiff love truncheon'.

But, alas, all the occupants of the farm were left unsatisfied, their rampaging hormones would send them all proper mental at least once a month, and they would barely escape their regular cat fights with their lives, let alone their clothes.

It was during one of these many lady tussles (turkeygirl had used pigeonwoman's hair straighteners, and received a resounding punch in the face for her trouble), that while our heroine, chickenlady sat reading another classic; 'Farmer Pickle's Love Box', that the doorbell rang.

*knock-knock*, it went.

The girls immediately stopped what they were doing, re-adjusted their jims-jams, peacockwoman had to remove her fingers from turkeygirl's hair as they had been tangled in the fraca, and looked at each other. None of them was expecting a visitor, why, no-one had even been to the farm in months.
As it was around 9pm, and dark outside, they knew it would be best to err on the side of caution. Each of the young women armed themselves quickly, some with rolling pins, some with hairbrushes, others with certain battery-operated devices that the others had only ever heard late at night. They crowded around the door, poised and ready. chickenlady stood on a stool, her quite heavy book held over her head, waiting for the right moment to bring it crashing down on her imaginary assailant's head.

Turkeygirl timidly opened the door, to be faced with a man, of sorts, he appeared to be very small, quite untidy, and had an usual amount of facial hair, though he did have a totally disarming air about him too, and seemed completely unthreatening.

Most of the girls promptly lost interest, preferring as they do the larger, more gruff kind of man. But chickenlady stayed, 'Hello kind sir, how may I help you tonight?' she almost whispered, barely audibly.
But he did not reply, he just stared back at her with his dark, beady little eyes, and casually scratched himself.
Thinking that perhaps the man was not possessed of all his faculties, and may be in need of care, the kind little chickenlady offered him a bed for the night, and prepared him a room at the other end of the house to her own. He did not thank her, which she thought was a little rude, but she was aware that clearly this man was either unable to speak at all, or perhaps he was even more shy than herself.

That night, everybody in the farmhouse was settling in to sleep, when some of the sisters pondered upon a brilliant scheme. They snuck their hot little bodies in their skimpy little pyjama tops and cute french panties (what..? -I'm not allowed to get pervy?), into the room where chickenlady slept. They picked her up, and without waking her, they carried her to the stranger's room, where they laid her on the floor and left, locking the door behind them.

The click of the key in the lock awoke chickenlady with a start. She looked about her, her eyes adjusting to the gloomy room. The stranger was asleep in his bed, curled up by the pale light of a small candle by his bedside. Frightened and bewildered, chickenlady got up quietly, and reached for the door.


**********sexy fun tiem starts here********

chickenlady's attempts to scrabble at the door had aroused the stranger from his slumber, she could hear him stirring behind her, and froze where she stood.
She heard him wriggle on the bed for a moment, then his footsteps shuffled across the dusty floor, until he was right behind her.
She could feel his hot breath, warming the back of her neck, and the presence of his body pressing almost against her back. She sighed and closed her eyes as he reached out to touch her. His tough, leathery hands stroked their way up her bare arms, and he began to play with her hair.
His lips hovered just over her shoulder, lightly brushing it with soft, barely detectable movements. She was dying for him to kiss her, to feel his lips on her right at that very moment, why wasn't he kissing her?!-her head filled with a thousand thoughts.

His hands made their way from her gorgeous, curly hair, across her soft cheeks and down her front, gently teasing his way around her erect nipples, before making their way across her soft, toned stomach. She allowed herself to let out a little moan, but she was well aware that she wasn't going to let herself go completely, not yet.

She slipped her little white nightie off her shoulders and it fell to her feet, this excited the stranger, she could feel him already digging into her back, but this caused him to throb harder. His rough hands carried ont their way, downwards, inside chickenlady's already moist knickers, this time she whimpered, and she had to hold onto the door she was facing, as her knees nearly gave way beneath her.
His fingers explored, teasing their way through the soft folds of her wet, exposed flesh. He stroked in little circles, first around the outside of her pulsating clitoris, then slowly on it, down to her soaked lips, before softly guiding them inside of her, stroking upwards, hitting the little spot that she had never known was there before.
chickenlady's legs were almost buckling now, she was moaning softly and her thighs were becoming sticky with the juices that were starting to run down her legs, she was only held up the strangers hand, his crotch digging into her from behind and his other hand now tenderly playing with her curls again.

He kissed her neck, she could feel the softness of his lips on her as he sucked, and she leaned back, her hands reaching out to hold him.
He stopped, and turned her around. They were face to face now, pressed right up against each other, and she was still dying for that kiss... But, he pushed her to the bed, there was more still to come.

Laid on the bed, chickenlady felt more exposed than she ever had in her life, but she was dying for him to... she didn't know, all of this was new to her, she wanted him, she just didn't know exactly what it was she was yearning for.
He took his time removing her drenched panties, and kissed his way from her knees, up her thighs, paying close attention to any part that made her moan that little bit harder, before he put his mouth on her...

chickenlady gasped, she had never felt anything like this before, his warm, soft tongue and lips were doing things to her that she could never have imagined. She writhed about on the bed, grabbing the sheets hard with clenched hands, and he teased her for what felt like an eternity.

When the stranger had had his fill, he sat up, and mounted the beautiful girl with whom he had been lucky enough to have an encounter with that fateful evening.
Pressing himself right up against her, until finally, painstakingly, agonisingly slowly, he entered her, and gave her the kiss that she had been waiting for.

They made love for hours, long into the night, and awoke cheerful and happy, cuddled up in each other's arms, chickenlady pressed against the silent stranger's hairy chest.

They laid there for hours, until Mrs Monkey burst into the farmhouse, and battered the shit out of both of them. She dragged the cheating Mr Monkey, who had escaped from the zoo that night, all the way home by his nipple hair.

...and that was the story of how chickenlady lost her virginity to an unfaithful monkey...

(massive apologies to chickenlady, and for the lack of wolf-bagging again, but you asked for a sequel!)

I wrote this in lieu of CHCB's QOTW suggestion, nicely tying it in with this week's one, I think.
I really should do some work.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 11:08, 93 replies)

that cold wet nose...
i was once dating a girl who had a little yorkie terrier. now i'm not too sold on the ol' barkin rats anyway, but this was particularly crabby and vile- it used to yip like it was on meth whenever i came in, growl when i kissed her, try to bite me, trip me up. now her parents HATEWD me- the dog however was their pride and joy. they hated me, and in return, i made it my duty to fuck their teenage daughter in every room of their house.
so we're in her TINY box room (so small the door opens OUT- remember this), trying to fuck quietly (ah, the risk of being caught... mmmmmm) folks are downstairs watching corrie, or some other horrible shit. anyhow, i'm there on the bed at some peculiar angle, going like the clappers when suddenly something very cold and wet touches RIGHT on my bunghole! naturally, i jumped viloently, and flailed an arm behind me, grabbing the dog which presumably was under the bed... lost my balance, fell back, my free hand hit the doorhandle, the door flew open, i fell out with the now-hysterical barking rat still gripped in my hand & yelping like a mad thing, just as her dad steps out of the toilet at the end of the hall to see a naked and tumescent peteloaf rolling round on his hall carpet like an upturned woodlouse, clutching the beloved family pet with his naked daughter lying on the bed in stitches.
needless to say i was barred from the house for a while.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 2:11, 1 reply)

Teenage Bestiality
'Bones' was the school hard man. From the 1st year until this incident in the 3rd he ruled the school with a rod of iron.

He claimed in the summer of 87 that his new dog (a bull mastiff as I recall) could 'do tricks' and insisted that a select few of us retire to his domicile to observe said tricks.

Picture the scene, we all line up in Bones' bedroom whilst he removes his trousers and pulls a straining erection from his underpants, purple bell end glistening pre-cum in the half light.

He takes a knife, and uses it to liberally coat his engorged member in marmite. I remember thinking that was what Darth Vader's cock might've looked like.

Then he calls the bull mastiff over, and encourages it to lick the yeast based spread from his tool.

It obliged, hungrily lapping at his swollen phallus, as he moaned excitedly.

It was at this point things went wrong. As we watched our horror at this adult show turned to even more horror and the obviously hungry mutt couldnt contain itself and took a bite at his todger.

He reared up in pain, blood spurting from his punctured veiny-bangstick. We all beat a hasty retreat to the soundtrack of his screams.
(Vic Flange, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 19:50, 3 replies)

Squirrel
I stood in Museum Gardens in York wearing a pair of brown cords and a green shirt.
A squirrel ran up my legs, perched on my hips, looked me in the eye, realised his mistake, and jumped off.
(kidcamel is due to call your mum at, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 16:13, 1 reply)

Australian Wildlife
.
I've always loved wildlife so I'm enjoying identifying the birds and animals I’m seeing here in Oz and I thought I'd tell you about some of the rarer wildlife here in Oz. So rare, in fact, that most Ozzies don’t even know about them.

The first one is the little known and rare drop-bear. These cuddly creatures are one of Australia's most dangerous creatures and account for more deaths in Australia than any other creature except crocs. They look a little like koalas and hide in gum trees until an unsuspecting tourist comes along when they'll drop from the tree onto the poor buggers head, rip open the top of the skull and dine on brains. I went out with one once.....

Next, the Melbourne Storm Bandicoot. These furry little bugger live in close proximity to humans but are rarely seen. They have the unique ability amongst marsupials of being able to imitate human speech, much like a parrot. However, they're only know to speak during massive downpours when they'll run around frantically (just like the humans they imitate) giving their distinctive cry of: "FUCKINGHELLITSRAINING"....

A frequent visitor to the Victoria coastline is the fascinating Oomeplum bird. This seabird has evolved without any legs as it, like the albatross, spends almost all of its life aloft, only landing to breed. During spring, you can watch these beautiful birds cautiously glide down to the rocky beaches to mate and, just on touchdown they issue their haunting cry of: "OOMEPLUMS!!" Brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it.

And the final animal I'd like to introduce you to is the little seen Winker-Wanker bird. By a curious trick of nature, this bird has it's foreskin attached to its eyelids. So, every time it winks, it wanks and every time it wanks, it winks. They are often found dead of exhaustion after sandstorms.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:50, 5 replies)

Guard Cats
Honest to god/s, this is true and only happened a couple of months ago.

I now have three cats. Tig, Max and Izzy. All are as soft as can be. They've never attacked anyone and only swear at each other when they're playing around.

One evening in February this year, I was mucking about on the PC as usual when I heard the cats hissing and growling downstairs. Getting up to investigate I wandered downstairs and saw Tig and Izzy peering around the bottom of the stairs and hissing at something in the kitchen. Thinking it was the third cat they were bullying I shoed them away and walked around the corner. The back door was wide open. I knew I had shut it. I started walking towards the door and all of a sudden there came the noise of footsteps legging it down the garden. I stuck my head out of the door but all I saw was a pair of white trainers disappearing around the back gate.

Having had a few drinkies, I was initially a bit unsure what to do first, pursue or call the police. As I didn't have any shoes on I called the police who turned up with their flaming great dog literally two minutes.

So we went through the normal police process, statements, Scene of Crime officers etc etc. Turns out that a house a few doors down from me had been burgled about 10 minutes before mine, which is why the police were in the area. The police had a suspect, he was a walk in burglar. He'd stolen a wallet and mobile phones from the other house.

If it wasn't for Tig and Izzy, I hate to think what he would of got away with from our place. A few days later I found a wallet belonging to the other burglary victim in our back garden.

The CID officer who took my statement clearly stated in "the owner was alerted by two of his cats, Tigga and Izzy, therefore scaring off the intruder".

I know it's not really an attack story, but I think their story needs to be told! I semi-jokingly entered them for a local radio competition to find 'Suffolk's Super Pet'. They didn't even qualify. The winner was a dog that alerted it's owners to a fire in the loft and the runner up was a dog that tried to hump a hedgehog. That is not a super pet! Even a f*ckin' budgie that flew back to it's own cage after escaping beat my crime fighting duo! Stupid inbred county.

If you want to see pictures of my pussy, please ask ;0)
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:22, 1 reply)

Pearoast alert!
From the accidental animal cruelty question... no apologies for the pearoast; it's on topic.

***********************************************

A scuba diving tale of caution...

On a club diving trip, a couple of lads have just reached the bottom, where they are kneeling on a sandy seabed, getting their bearings.

One diver, Steve, spies something from the corner of his eye. Something half buried in the sand, and a fair size. "Fuck me," he thinks, "it's a monkfish", and swims over to have a look.

Now, instead of admiring this wonder of the North Sea, he does what any self respecting hunter-gatherer would do, and whips his knife from its sheath, and stabs it in the back before it can swim off. He then grabs the knife handle, and with a flourish produces his 'goodie bag' and jams the monkfish in, head first.

His original intention to carry it with him on the dive soon wears a bit thin (what with it being a big bloody fish, quite heavy, and still thrashing around in the bag). So he thinks to himself, "I'll just go up the shotline, chuck the bag in the boat, and pop back down again". Which he does.

Surfacing by the boat, he shouts, "How man, Vince, look after this for me", chucks the bag into the boat, and descends once more.

Vince being a bit of a nosy bastard wonders what's in the bag (thinking it might be a lobster) and goes to have a look. Now at this point it's worth pointing out that the combination of divers jumping in and out the boat, plus a bit of a swell, has caused water to gather on the deck. Not much, but a good 2 - 3 inches. It's also worth pointing out that monkfish are fucking ugly bastards, with a mouth the size of the Tyne Tunnel and a head to match.

So Vince picks up the bag, has a look in, promptly shits himself, and drops the bag. Whereupon the monkfish, by now a tad pissed off, escapes from its canvassy prison, and proceeds to chase Vince around the deck of the boat, still with knife stuck in its back, opening and shutting its gaping maw in a desperate attempt to get its revenge on, well, any poor fucker in the way. Which happened to be Vince.

Apparently it took about 30 blows to club it to death with a large diving torch...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:42, 1 reply)

I knew a girl that got kicked in the face by a horse...
For many years after she had a horseshoe shaped welt on her fractured face.
It is this i stared at as she expertly wanked me off one fine afternoon.
(wrigglesworth, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:35, 4 replies)

Titan the Bull Mastiff.
He was called Titan, he was a Bull Mastiff, he weighed 20 stone and was built like an iron shithouse. He had a habit of running through doors (when closed) and wearing them like a dog ruff. He was as soppy as a puppy and as frisky as Rod Hull and loved playing with sticks (tree trunks). He ate like Desperate Dan and shit like a platoon of marines.

One day when we were playing he pinned me down, I really couldn't move and I'm 6'5" and 17 stone and got a look in his eye that I'd seen in a few ladies in my time, a predatory lust that's appealing in the right circumstances. Just as he was about to get it on, I screamed 'GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU DIRTY CUNT!' in his face, slavering inches from my own. He stopped, looked guilty, and proceeded to lick my face like an icecream. Good doggy.
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:59, Reply)

Cows are not that clever
Way back when (it was legal), and when I was a bit less apathetic, I'd occasionally go foraging for magic mushrooms up on the south Downs, generally with little success.

Apparently you're supposed to do it before dawn's early light. Well, being the thick twats we were, we thought late afternoon was probably just as good.

So there we were, tramping round fields on a cold October afternoon, when we got into a bit of a boggy bit. The going got slow, the light started to fail, so we thought sod it, time for home and made a beeline for the first recognisable landmark.

As we tramp, a few of the more athletic looking cows in the field decide to trail behind a bit... and as we keep going, the cows come closer and gain in number. So we pick up speed - they pick up speed, and almost instantly their number doubles as all their compatriots hear the rumble of hooves across the field. They're close now, and me and my friend Bob Skeng are getting pretty shitted up, seeing as it's dark and we've got 10 tonnes of beef behind us at 7mph or something. We decide to peg it... and quickly realise the cows can not only easily keep up, they're getting EVEN CLOSER.

At this point, 'cos I'm not much of a runner, I think my best course of action is to turn round, face them head-on and try to sneak through a gap rather than be mown down from behind.

The sight of a dozen cattle all attempting to put the brakes on, feet skittering as they skid about in their own shit, trying to avoid each other (and me) and then pelt it away in sheer panic will stay with me for ever.

Next time no doubt, I will actually get seriously trampled.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 23:53, 2 replies)

that damned duck
My son loves to feed the ducks at the local park so we go down there regularly with bags of old bread or a few handfuls of grain. Now most of the ducks are your laid back, passive quacking little buggers, but there is one evil, steam train hissing, psychotic bastard of a muscovy duck (ugly buggers they are). This one decided he wasn't getting his share of the bread so he reared up, flapping his wings, knocked my 2 year old flat on his arse and proceeded to peck him with malice aforethought. I did what any self respecting father would do and taught that evil little duck that he could fly without using his wings, thanks to a kick up the clacker.

A week or two later we were back at the pond and saw that someone had spray painted the duck bright green. Can't say I felt sorry for it.
( SteamedCleaner, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 18:09, Reply)

Eeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww
.
Just last night, I was doing some weeding in the garden - not late at night you understand, back of 6.

There I was, kneeling on the grass, pulling up weeds and muttering about f**king dandelions and f**cking clover. I was being constantly distracted by JuniorWitch #2 on her bike and muttering, in between curses against the weeds, "If she doesn't stop ringing that f**cking bell I'm breaking it" so I wasn't really looking at what I was doing.

All of a sudden I felt an odd sensation on my hand and glanced down. Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww. There was a huuuuge slug crawling over my hand, or wriggling, or whatever the hell it is they do. I shot to my feet like I'd been electrocuted and proceeded to shake my hand like Michael J Fox on a really bad day. The bloody thing didn't fall off. Much more shaking followed before I finally grabbed the trowel and knocked it off. I then jumped on it when it hit the grass (not stepped on it, jumped on it) to make damn sure it wasn't trying that again.

By this stage, JuniorWitch has abandoned the bike and is watching with unmistakable glee as her mother performed a deranged dance routine on the grass. Little sod was laughing so hard I'm surprised she didn't wet herself.

I told her I was going to put a shallow dish of beer out to drown any other slugs invading our space and she told me, completely straight-faced and seriously,

"You'll have a hard job, Dad's drunk it all."

Her face when she said that reminded me so much of my mum's patented "Disapproving Parent/Wife" face that I really wished I had a camera in my hand. I pity any poor bloke brave enough to take her on when she grows up!

WeeWitch 1 - Slug 0
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 14:02, 7 replies)

When Great Danes Attack
When I was a single fella I used to have a great dane, lovely animal, came from rescue, a bit dim, but not a bad bone in her...
In the 11 years I had her, she was walked (almost)every morning, rain or shine & it was the high point of her (very lazy) day.
One morning I had a truly monumental hangover & simply couldn't be arsed to get up & walk her.
Living in a bungalow with such a large animal, you have to have a few ground rules: the dog isn't allowed into the bedroom being rule numero uno.
On this morning, rule numero uno was ignored & a large sad looking face appeared inches from my own. As I yawned she chose that moment to sneeze, right into my open mouth.
One lazy, hungover twat suddenly found the energy to get up very quickly indeed & rush to the bathroom, trying very hard not to get reaquainted with last nights beverages.
Needless to say, the dog's tail was wagging fit to flail a masochist into exctasy; her lovely owner had got up in a hurry just to give her a walk... and I did after using most of a bottle of mouthwash...
(stygof, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 6:11, 2 replies)

pervet poodle
As I have mentioned previously (see post: floodlit shit part deux) mrs spimf used to have a nancy looking little toy poodle - to be fair the little fucker was as hard as nails and would have the hand off you at any opportunity but he was according to mrs spimf 'her little prince'. He only ever ate grilled chicken breast; pan-fried liver (with a little dash of red wine naturally) or chocolate. He would walk on paths to avoid wet grass and would NEVER step in a puddle.

For the first seven years or so the 'little prince' had the then Miss Spimf all to his little fluffy self. Then i came on the scene. i was at best 'tolerated' by the yappy little fucker. If Mrs Spimf was asleep he would not let me anywhere near her - if i even so as much walked by her if she had nodded off on the sofa he could leap from apparent dozing to waist height level to bite my hand. in one rapid manoeuvre - like a little french ninja.

we also stood aghast one day watching him go into the laundry basket - rummage around for some of my underwear, pull it out then piss on it.

the final insult though was one fine day Mrs Spimf and i were sharing a moment of tender lurve, all was progressing swimmingly Mrs Spimf writhing and panting away like some Mills & Boon heroine when suddenly and much to her shock I went rigid, bolt upright (no not that, that was already perfectly tumescent thank you) but you would have thought i had just been tasered.

"My God what’s wrong Spimf, are you ok"

Little bastard had only crept up onto the bed and stuck his cold wet little nose right up my arse.

He's buried under my back lawn now, natural causes like ; D
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 10:01, Reply)

Legless' thieving goose story reminded me
of the time we (nearly) saw a swan attack.

Outside the office was a canal, with the banks "gentrified" when the shiny new offices were built. Inhabiting the canal were various kinds of duck, and a pair of swans.

We had watched the swans building a nest and were looking forward to the hatching of the cygnets.

So this one day, the landscape guys are out tidying up the banks, and pulling assorted crap out of the canal. They were wearing waders, not chest waders, but thigh waders. They were working opposite sides of the canal and we watched as one of them got closer and closer to the swans' nest. (We weren't exactly busy that day.)

Eventually, he got that wee bit too close to the nest, and big daddy swan (yes, I know, it's called a cob, but we always called him big daddy swan) objected. I mean, he really, really objected.

He chased the poor guy, neck stretched out at full length, wings flapping like fury, beak going mental. There's the poor gardener, thigh waders seriously impeding his escape, belting along as fast as he could go, and safely behind triple glazed windows were half a dozen office working pissing themselves laughing.

The chase ended when he jumped into the works' van and closed the door, red faced and knackered. The cob folded his wings neatly, and calmy returned to the nest, his walk even more of a proud strut than usual.

Swan 1 - Gardener 0
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Sun 27 Apr 2008, 12:30, Reply)

My rabbit nearly broke my jaw when I was a wee nipper!
But that's not all the little cunt did. He was a beautiful French dwarf lop. I'm assuming he was a dwarf compared to rabbits that are the size of Labradors!

Because we have a massive garden that led onto other gardens, we used to let the rabbit run free on the garden. But in the end the little sod used to eat the flowers in the garden. Not when nobody was watching; only, and ONLY when my mum was watching, shouting at him.

We fenced that bit off, and let him run around the rest of the garden. Then we got a cat and were slightly worried about him. We needn't have been. Let me explain.

One day, we heard a massive cat-like screech. In limps our cat, with a massive bite mark on his arse, and a smug looking rabbit outside.

Ever since then, whenever cats are in the garden, we ended up watching a high-speed chase - some cat legging it down the garden with a grey pair of flopping ears inches away from its arse. The little fucker used to hide behind the shed then leg it, it must have made Sweep's day! The cats got clever and started walking along the fence to torment it. The rabbit got cleverer and booted the fence til the cat fell off.

When we got our guinea pig, he got even more vicious around cats, to ward them off her.

Unfortunately, he booted himself out of his cage one night and he got chased around the garden by dogs when he was in his old age. He never got caught; he had a heart attack on top of his hutch. The poor bastard got a taste of his own medicine, but he went out in style.

The guinea pig was never the same since; if we sat with her to let her graze, she'd run like shit back into the house. Bless.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 15:29, 2 replies)

This time, it's teamwork
I *swear* this is true!

I may have mentioned our two cats - Friendly and Chainsaw.

Anyhow, one house we had, there was an old people's home next door. The woman who ran it had an Alsatian. One day, it dug its way under the fence into our garden. I'm somewhat scared of dogs, so I was very under-impressed. The cats came to my rescue!

Friendly cat did a very creditable impression of a poorly cat that was near death and easy to chase down... The Alsatian gave chase. I legged it for the house, and went up to my room to watch.

Friendly led the Alsatian a couple of laps around the garden. As I watched, Chainsaw leaped out of a tree and landed on the Alsatian's neck. Friendly spun round and piled in too. That dog took one seriously major pasting at their paws!

I lost sight of it as it tried to dig its way back through the fence.

It ran away a few days later, and was never seen again.

She bought another dog. The cats had that one sorted out in a couple of weeks too. It used to hide whenever the cats showed up.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 21:22, 2 replies)

The daffodil had it coming

(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 12:42, Reply)

My last Tale of the Uber-Moggie, I promise.
And a second tale of Maestro-related woe.

My family was away for a few days, sadly I didn’t get to do anything hilarious, host a party, have an orgy or anything worthy of QOTW.

I had been out along the back roads again taking some more pics of Scotland In The Rain ™ (I was a budding photographer at the time) and was wending my way home as darkness fell. Now on this route was a ford, and we all know how much fun it is to go ‘Kersplash’,don't we?So I was nipping along quite nippily, around the corner we go, and there was the ford. My alleged brain had about two seconds to digest the following:

‘Ooh, that looks a bit bigger than I remember’
‘Hasn’t it been raining steadily for about a week?’
‘Why are my headlights underwater?’

Uh-Oh.

As the current started to push me off the roadbed, I managed to slam it into first gear and rev like a nutter. We got about 2/3 of the way out before ‘phut’. Now the bloody thing won’t start with the exhaust underwater, I’m 20 miles from the nearest civilization, it’s raining, it’s getting dark, and basically I want my Mum. Oh, and there’s no-one at home to come and get me, and I don’t even know the road number (‘it’s the wan where you turn off by the big patch of bracken and the boulders’ is not useful to the AA).

Bollocks. Steeling myself, I wind down the window, and Dukes Of Hazzard out of the car, sploshing into the water with the grace and style of a pre-menstrual hippo.

Handbrake off, and HEAVE. At this point, I discover that the roadbed is extremely slippery with algae, so my legs are pistoning like a cat on laminate flooring, and we are actually rolling backwards. Into the maelstrom. Terror switches on the adrenaline (not the drowning bit, just of explaining to my Mother) and with a superhuman effort I manage to push the thing up the hill just far enough, and then dive headfirst through the window, scrabbling for the handbrake, and nearly ripping my nuts off in the process. I could just have opened the door but that would have been sensible. Finally seated, muscles aching, soaked and shivering, Glory Be, the damn thing starts.

I drive home, and thinking of the cold and empty house that awaits, I decide that can’t be arsed cooking, and some nice hot scoff would be just the job. Chippy. Pie Supper, Salt & Sauce (none of your Englander ‘vinegar’, thank you). Lovely.

Squelch into the house, put supper down, and trudge off to find dry jeans & boots. Righty ho, time for some high-cholesterol sustenance, thinks I, as I walk in to the room, wondering what the strange sound is. A bit like an industrial waste disposal unit?

You.

Hairy.

Bastard.

He’s half way through my pie supper. I never even knew he liked chips.

Cat looks me in the eye, licks his lips, sneers, and waddles off hiccupping.

I may have cried.

Still finished the supper, though.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:53, Reply)

Stings and their treatment...
On a visit to Thailand, I was happily splashing about in the sea when my frolics were abruptly cut short by sudden intense pain. I ran out and inpected the damage: a jellyfish had left an angry red welt on my stomach. If you've never been savaged by one of those gelatinous denizens of the deep, it hurts like fuck for about ten minutes, continues to hurt like buggery for about half an hour, then gradually tails off to a low-level pain that just makes you snuffle a bit.

Various kind people offered advice:

1. Piss on it (the classic remedy) - tempting, but rather awkward to implement in public without a certain loss of dignity.
2. Rub it with vinegar - a less unpleasant alternative to piss, but, Thailand having a dirth of fish and chip shops, I couldn't locate any.
4. Smear banana on the affected area - a local tip from a nice Thai lady who gave me a banana she happened to have about her person to use for this very purpose. It worked a bit, but probably not as well as piss or vinegar.
5. Stop winging, you Pommie bastard - an Australian gentleman consoled me with the words - "If that'd been a box jellyfish, you'd be dead by now."
( enceladus, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 21:53, 1 reply)

Deer Deer Deer
When my sister visited Scotland, she did a lot of walking, and seeing the various sights. This included the local wildlife. She told me once of an incident involving a stag.

Now, if you've seen them in the wild, you know that they're really quite beautifully elegant creatures. Huge antlers, and a sense of grace and purpose about them at all times. Virtually any photograph of one you take is guaranteed to look good.

Unfortunately, she managed to piss one off. No idea how, but it charged her. And quite obviously she ran for it. She got lucky though, as it didn't succeed in goring her. After only running about a hundred metres or so towards her... the exertion was too much! It collapsed and died.

Another tragic victim of hart failure.

(I am so very very sorry!)
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:35, 2 replies)

Gypsy T Cat
I grew up with cats, my parents had cats before I was born and after I left home, therefore I grew up with the same admiration for moggies.

Gypsy (aka Ahhh Gerroff You Little Git) was my first own cat when I left home. I got him from an old lady who was being moved in to a hospice and was having trouble rehoming him. He was old, grumpy, stuck in his ways, spoilt and had a purr that sounded like Darth Vader with asthma (bad enough that one evening the neighbours phoned me to tell me Gypsy was eating their cats food and he seemed to have some breathing problems).

When Gypsy first moved in with me, we initially had some leadership issues. He thought he was leader of the pride, I thought I was. I wouldn't say he was an evil cat, but he would attack any girlfriends if they were being snuggly with me, rubbed himself against erotically against ladies shoes, attacked bare feet & other cats and I even saw him chase a Muntjac deer out of my back garden.

Gypsy always slept on my bed. I tried to stop him, but he started destroying the doors of the rented flat I was in. First the paint work then the woodwork. This had to end, I had to take charge of him.

It all culminated one night when I was lying bed trying to sleep. Gypsy was in his normal spot on the bed, my left knee. He did the padding thing that most cats do, that sort of gentle massage with claws. But this night he seemed to go on and on. I switched on the light. There was Gypsy, usual spot, padding away but this time he had his little pink penis sticking out and was thrusting it against my knee.

Yelling, I shot out of bed. Gypsy legged it out of the bedroom and in to the front room. I threw on my terry towel dressing gown and went after him. As I rounded the corner I saw him standing on the sofa, staring at me, daring me. I walked toward him and he hissed and growled. I told him the time had come for him to learn who was master. As I got to within about 2 foot of him, he launched.

The next thing I knew I had a hissing, growling cat attached the front of my dressing gown, 6 inches under my nose. He was like a mad, rabid version of those stick on Garfields you used to see on car windows, the claws of all four paws gripping the cloth, eyes staring in to mine and the smell of his rancid cat breath invading my nostrils.

I grabbed him, threw him back on to the sofa and pinned him down. Then I started to roughly mess up his fur, which most cats hate (I couldn't actually do anything really harmful to him). He purred. He purred like he'd never purred before. And from that moment, we never had issues again. Whilst other cats still received the beatings of their lives and visiting lady friends would have to keep their shoes out of his grasp, he didn't attack humans and he knew he wasn't boss anymore. I'd stood up to him and won.

When I got my second rescue cat (Tig), she was pregnant. Gypsy was great with her, but as soon as the kittens were born, he left home. He moved in with an old couple a few doors down from me. They used to give him Weetabix for breakfast, chicken for dinner and salmon for tea. I wasn't overly happy that he had moved on, but I knew he was being fed well and they could spend a lot of time with him, being retired. What I didn't know was that they couldn't afford to pay any vet bills.

I didn't see Gypsy for about two months. Then one evening as I was putting the bin out, I saw him. He had changed from a rough, bruiser cat to a skinny, ill looking bag of bones. I picked him up and he purred. His breath was more rancid than usual. I catnapped him back from the neighbours and took him to the vet the very next day. He had a very seriously infected abscess in his mouth. His kidneys were shutting down (all the good food the neighbours were giving him didn't help). He had to be put down.

I will never forget the emotions of that day. Having to tell the old couple he was dead. Having to bury him. Blaming myself for letting him go and not keeping an eye on him. Wanting to blame them for his death.

This cat had attacked me, my parents, girlfriends and had even molested my left knee, but he was still the best cat I ever had (even though I love my current bunch dearly).

Sorry for length and sad ending, but that really was cathartic!


I've plenty of 'my cats' or 'when I lived in Africa' animal stories, so I'll pick a funny one next time!

Ta

Smurf.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:04, Reply)

not so much seaguls attack
This isn’t my story but one of my friends.

They were on a stag doo and decided to go beach fishing, with a roaring fire, cook what they caught etc.

Now, on of the lads wasn’t really the fishing kind, sort of disagreed with the whole thing.

Anyhow, he decided to give it a whirl for the sake of the stag.

His first cast, flies through the air, wraps round a seagull mid flight, and plunges to the sea.

"SHIT! SHIT!" he screamed.

The seagull was now in the water and struggling to stay afloat. All that could be heard was gurgles of Seagull cries. Meanwhile the seagulls mate had decided to float next to the commotion.

The weights used in sea fishing are pretty heavy to accommodate tide forces etc.

"What do we do? he’s nearly going under" my mate shouted.

"erm Cut the line" one lad shouted...

Which they did

And as they did the seagull plunged under...

it turned out the only thing keeping the seagull slightly afloat was the line itself..

Then it was silent, apart from the cries from the seagulls mate...

My mate threw his rod down and has never picked up one since.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 1 May 2008, 12:32, Reply)

Duck & Lover
Many moons ago, I rented a great little farmhouse that came with it's own colony of large Muscovy ducks.

Mad little fuckers though they were, we soon learned to love them and them us. They'd run (literally) to us whenever we got home for some bread and to hiss at the cat, stand on the window sill outside the kitchen eye-balling us or just wander in through the door to shit on the carpet.

After gaining their trust they let us hand feed them the precious stale bread they so coveted or, on special occassions, cornflakes.

Me being a man and that, I decide that the only thing left to do was to feed one... by mouth.

I broke off a tasty crust and stuck it casually between my lips. Had I been more vigilant, I'd have noticed 'Edgar' - the biggest, greediest and obvious King of the ducks - giving me the lifeless one-eyed, cocked-headed stare.

No sooner had I bent down Edgar seized his chance; in a swift single stroke he struck - pecking at the bread with suck force that he burst both my lips and very nearly broke my front teeth.

I stood dazed and bleeding while Edgar stared at me, eating his prize while mrs tinpixel pissed herself laughing.

I spent the next week with purple Betty Boop lips, explaining to clients that asked that No, I'd not been fighting, I'd been attacked by a duck.
(tinpixel, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:23, Reply)

A morning surprise, but not in a nice way.
It was a Monday morning, I distinctly remember because I was pissed off at having to get up early to go out on Site after a weekend of laziness in the new house.

I arose at 6am and crawled to the bathroom to perform my ablutions. Having achieved said relief I returned to the bedroom to give the girlfriend a kiss before I started getting dressed.

I removed a freshly laundered pair of pants from the drawers. I knew they were freshly laundered because I had brought them in off the washing line the night before, folded them up and placed them there ready for use.

I put my pants on, little althegeordie and his partners in crime swingin gently in the breeze, and pulled them up snug.

I reached for my trousers when OHGODBASTARDSHAGGINGDAMNHELLCRAP!!! what the hell is that sharp stabbing sensation in my crotch? I staggered across the bedroom, crashing into the wardrobe while trying to remove my underwear. Upon throwing them on the floor I leapt, legs akimbo like John Wayne with piles, and slapped frantically at the light switch, the scene was revealed in all its glory along with a muffled groan from my other half as she rolled over to shield her eyes (from the light, she was not disgusted by my naked form, at least no more than usual).

A wasp, a big bastard wasp, about an inch and a half long crawled out of my discarded pants and lazily took to the air in the style of a dozy wasp in the middle of winter (which it was). It buzzed around my head a bit before settling on the lamp shade where I managed to capture it in a glass and dispose of it out the bathroom window.

Now I should mention that I do not react well to wasp stings. They aren't life threatening, but I do have a tendency to swell. So for the next two weeks I felt like I had a grapefruit in my pants and an almost irrestistable urge to scratch it constantly.

I hate wasps.

length jokes as appropriate.
(Bazongaloid, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 15:34, 11 replies)

I like dogs, really I do
But as a 4 year old wasn't aware of how being beaten repeatedly on the head, with a plastic squeeky hammer toy, would enrage a giant german shepherd so much. The answer is a lot.

It was a friend of my Dads, who was visiting, with this toothy, hairy (but lovely) hound. Hound was good as gold, and lay down at end of sofa to chill, while I watched for a bit, then, being bored (and annoying) began tapping it on the head with my favourite toy of the time, a plastic squeeky hammer. Everytime you hit something, it squeeked, and I chuckled. What could be more fun than setting about this dogs gigantic, hairy head with this hammer? Not much, I thought, and went at it with gusto for all of 5 minutes until fangs had had enough.

Turning around, with no bark to warn me, he grabbed my head in his gaping mouth, and squeezed, just hard enough to leave a row of tooth marks across my forehead, and not draw any blood, or even hurt me really if truth be told. He then lay back down again to chill. I sat there agape, and covered in dog slobber for a bit, and, sensibly, stopped attacking him with my hammer. I did have some cool toothmarks for the next hour, which I was everso impressed with, so it wasn't all bad.

My dad said it served me right, and to be fair, it did.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:12, 3 replies)

Raar! Dog attack!
Several months back, my stepmum decided for whatever reason to get a new dog. As such, when my dad got home from work he was greeted by a friendly little black labrador named Jess. However, what the people at the pound decided not to mention was that the dog was (and still is) an absolute hyperactive mental case.

As such, she's great fun to play with, the problem being that she wants to play all the time regardless of whether you're trying to read the paper/eat dinner/fix a faulty plug/whatever. When she's not bringing a ball to you and nudging your leg until you throw it, she's running around crazily, barking at nothing in particular. Sometimes playing with her can be a bit like pass-the-parcel with live fireworks. Fun, but liable to cause injury.

The actual qotw-relevent incident occured when I was down my dad's one weekend. I was chatting to my dad in his bedroom when he dropped something, and being the helpful chap I am, I leaned across the bed to pick it up.
Unfortunately Jess decided then was a good time to run upstairs into the room and jump up onto the bed.

Landing paw-first on my nads.

Startled by my subsequent shout of pain/surprise, she tried to escape. This involved her scrabbling around on my back, before finally propelling herself off, in the process delivering a sharp kick to the back of my head.
Her five seconds of mayhem complete, she then ran back downstairs, leaving my dad sniggering in the corner and me lying on the bed quietly whimpering. When I came down a few minutes later she was sitting on the sofa, with a simpleton grin that clearly said "That was great fun, wasn't it? Wanna throw the ball for me?"

Bitch.
(Uncle Comrade, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 13:11, Reply)

Tilly
Poor stupid Tilly, a Bassett with a penchant for eating her own shit, getting 'tillyplexed' by my older brother and raiding the bins when no one was looking. My mum doted on the stinky thing like she was her daughter, so the day when Tilly began running round in circles was a little bit distressing for my mum. And these weren't bit garden style circles, these were like doggy doughnuts, the dog version of jormungandr if you will. "she's just having a funny five minutes, thats what it is" say ma. 4 hours later our canine friend hadn't stopped, but being the usual style bassett "unfit and lazy", her front legs had gone and she was now plowing her way around the tiled kitchen floor" much like a skidoo.

Eventually after an 'all nighter' she succumbed to exhaustion and just couldn't move anymore, she stopped, threw up the contents of the bin she had raided and promptly passed out.

A visit to the vet (and examination of her vom) revealed poisoning by edit:cyanide generated by eating a whole bag of almonds my mum had thrown out.

...however we knew better. My brothers girlfriend had thrown away a gram of base speed the night before because it was "too much" and Tilly had come in to the bedroom and raided the bin.

We would never have forgiven ourselves if Tilly had died that day, but as she ended up ok, Tillys foray into the house of dance is now legend where I come from.

How did she attack you may ask?

She puked on my bed....
(Meganinja, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 12:47, 1 reply)

Sheeeeeeeeep!
January 2nd 2000, Edinburgh. My kidneys still ached from the debauch of a couple of nights before - I had a vague memory of lights in the sky (fireworks, apparently...) and the blonde whose body I'd been exploring - but my head was finally clear. I decided to do a bit of hillwalking. I'm that way inclined on occasion.

My route took me into the countryside near Peebles. I passed a field full of sheep and stopped to go "Aaaaahhhh..." for a bit. The sheep were not shy; they did not run away. They approached. They were friendly. I stroked a couple on the head.

After a little while, I decided to press on. The sheep followed. Being sheep, they followed en masse. There must have been about 50 of them. And they were all following me. The farmer was approaching from the other side of the field. I upped my pace, unsure of whether I was, strictly speaking, on a public path.

The sheep matched my pace. I could not shake them.

Is sheep rustling still a crime in Lothian? Who knows? And is it sheep rustling if the sheep are complicit? Or had they simply formed themselves into their own ovine vigilante group? A sort of neighbourfold watch? Not wanting to find out, I upped my pace a bit more. Gradually, very gradually, I began to leave them behind, though they still followed me.

I passed the farmer. He was lovely, and we chatted about my planned route. He wished me well, and I continued on my way.

In the winter sunlight, all that clouded my happiness was the thought that, in effect, I had just had to run away from a flock of sheep.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 12:31, 11 replies)

Kick-Me Dogs
There I was, standing at the bus stop, eating a pie when an oldish woman with a pekingese wandered up and stood at the stop with me. The pekingese sat there, staring at me eating my pie and drool was dripping from it's mouth. Quite off-putting it was.

So I said to old lady:

"Excuse me, but do you mid if I chuck your dog a bit?"

"Not at all" said the old lady smiling.

So I picked the fucker up and threw it into the traffic. Then finished off my pie.

Cheers

What? Yes, I know that joke is older than than the pyramids but I just felt like telling it.....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 10:20, 1 reply)

This could be construed as an animal 'attack'.
As a solitary man living off the land I regularly dine hugely off of roadkill.

A few weeks ago, I partook of a vindaloo of ferret, I found my quarry on the A44 just outside Moreton-in-the-marsh. His head had just been pressed flatter than Keira Knightley's chest by a passing 25 tonner, but his body, where all officionadoes will tell you is where the best meat is (I'm not aversed to offal, but lets be honest, a ferret's brain being even smaller than Alistair Darling's wouldn't feed a pensioner on a starvation diet), was intact and still plump and juicy.

I took the little fella home (I'm normally against the idea of naming animals but I decided to call this one 'Prescott'), skinned him, and fried his liver and all the good meat up placing him into a pot with some gee, Garam Masala, onions, and peppers and left him to broil for a few hours.

My culinary expertise would've had Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall smiling and, dare I add, nursing a semi.

Served with a small portion of wild rice, he was a truly tasty treat, succulent and fulsome, yet gamey and challenging to the tastebuds.

So where, I hear you ask, is the attack?

Those of you who follow my exploits will know that a lot of my stories revolve around fecal matter, and I'm pleased to say, this one is no exception.

Around 3am, I was awoken by a smell unlike no other I have ever sensed, and bear in mind I've lived in a rundown shack with dry rot in the woods for 20 years.

On inspecting my environs it quickly became clear to me that during my slumbers I must've involuntarily evacuated my bowels, as a liberal coating of thick foul smelling tar-like faeces adhered to my mattress, bedclothes and, interestingly, to the wall next to my bed.

Be warned, ferret vindaloo, delicious, but deadly!
(Vic Flange, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 9:11, 3 replies)

I was attacked by a squirrel once
It went straight for the nuts
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 23:19, 1 reply)

Pets and drugs! a shocking expose
My former house mate went on a weekend long bender, coming back from the pub he teamed up with my other housemate for a smoking session. Over the course of a weekend I was getting the fear, over whether the fire brigade would come as there was smoke pouring out his window like a fog machine.

When they came down on the following Tuesday they realized that they had been shopping. housemate 1's g/f had taken them to petsmart while they were still caned off their Cheeto's enlarged tits. They each had a new pet a rabbit and a guinea pig. I don't know what these animals were supposed to be like as I only care for cats as pets. But I'm fairly sure that you are not supposed to smoke 'reefer madness' levels of skunk in the same room as them.

Then the inevitable happened.My house mates ran out of money. No money=no weed. This was bad enough for the stoners, who had to face daytime tv sober. The pets however had spent every day of their young lives high. Imagine if you will two small animals being blissfully happy in their cages thinking dryfood tastes cocking-awesome^TM, to suddenly come down and face reality. Keen pratchet readers would know this as knurd, wiki.lspace.org/wiki/Knurd.


Once docile pets became Vicious, malevolent little bastards overnight. they would snap at you. spit and using their newfound energy, run around all night keeping you awake (on purpose most likely). After about the fourth time the rabbits owner opened its hutch only for the rabbit to leap directly into his face and "have a spazz attack" as he put it, it was given away to some kids.

The guinea pig remained with its owner, ans slowly calmed down. But It could still seek out a spliff from a distance of 20m away.


Never get your pets stoned. they will go a bit odd.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 9:36, Reply)

pearoast
from accidental animal cruelty, but i think it fits in better here:

Hector was our family dog when I was younger, a large ginger and white spaniel of undetermined ancestry. He was supposed to be a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, but blatantly wasn't. Still, he was a 'character', and quite the most repulsive dog to have ever lived. We would often find him eating pools of his own and other dogs vomit, and he would lick snot from us kids when we had a cold. But his most, ahem, 'endearing' feature was the method by which he cleared a room with his farting. Sorry, by room, i mean building, and on occasion, village. His farts were legendary in their vileness. Small animals in surrounding fields would pass out whenever Hector passed wind. It was bad.

One day, when i was around 9 or 10 years old, i was lying on the sofa reading some dismal Enid Blyton tome, with Hector lying next to me. All very lovely. Then he decided to get off the sofa, and stood up, before turning round to jump off. In turning round, he presented me with an unpleasant view of his chocolate starfish, far too close to my face for comfort. 'Ugh, Hector!' I shouted, as i tried to move away. But too slowly.
As i moved, i felt a puff of air coming towards my face. With a slow inevitability, the puff of air, green in hue, rolled through the air, revealing itself to be a Hector fart. I couldn't move fast enough, and as i did move, i breathed in. Yup, I inhaled the fart of my dog.

Well, to say it was nasty would be an enormous understatement. I gagged. I retched. And I ran to the bathroom to vomit copiously. It was as if Satan himself had been specially rotting some dead animals with some sewage, before capturing the essence to blast in my direction. I was SICK. I was able to taste that fart for days to follow, and couldn't eat for a while, as i felt so wretched.

Today, almost 16 years later, I still occasionally gag at the thought of this. I'm sure even now some of my lung cells are gently retching, whilst several tastebuds were annihilated, and will never again fully function.
( ascorbate, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:45, 1 reply)

And then there are the red squirrels...
As a child in the Adirondacks, one of the favorite summer pastimes was to tame the chipmunks so they would take a peanut from you. Over the course of a month or so we got them tame enough that they would climb your leg, go up your back and take a peanut from behind your ear- or sometimes the little buggers figured out that I had them in my shirt pocket and would dive right in.

We also had red squirrels up there, rather aggressive and quick-moving little bastards who hate chipmunks. But as chipmunks prefer the ground and the squirrels prefer the trees, they have a sort of uneasy truce.

One summer when I was about 12 my neighbor had managed to tame a red squirrel to climb up on his shoulder, so I took to feeding him too. This was fun, as he acted differently from the chipmunks, and the novelty value was pretty good.

I was doing this one day and had the squirrel on my shoulder busily chewing up the shell of the peanut I had given him when I felt something on the back of my right leg. The thought "oh shit" had just enough time to form in my mind when the squirrel and the chipmunk saw each other.

You know how in the old Looney Toons they showed a fight between a cat and a dog as a sort of tornado blur with claws popping out of the cloud at random places? Picture that happening on my back and chest as the two of them chased each other around my body.

I screamed and they both took off, leaving me with dozens of scratches and an aversion to red squirrels.

Little bastards...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:46, 9 replies)

Moth attack!
It's important before we begin the story that you know my wife is Korean.

A couple years ago we adopted our first cat, Millie, a very sweet female cat born in an inbred litter (mother was impregnated by her own son from an earlier litter). Cats are rare pets in Korea and most people consider them vermin, so they get treated very poorly. My wife has been converted to a cat person now though.

We were sitting in the bedroom once when I saw Millie in the next room leaping around trying to catch a moth. My wife asked what was so funny and I said "Millie's trying to catch a moth."

My wife shrieked and jumped on the bed. With instructions "Get rid of it!" I went to catch the moth. After I left the bedroom my wife slammed the door behind me.

It was a little challenging, but with Millie's keen eyes following its every movement I was making progress. My wife shouted through the door "Open the front door and get it outside!"

But that didn't make sense. I replied "Then more will come in," which triggered another scream from her. She was taking this little moth way too seriously.

Finally I flattened it when it came to rest on the side of a dresser. I picked up Millie and tried to make her knock on the door, which amounted to a fairly pathetic scratching sound. On the other side of the door, my wife screamed.

I opened the door and brought the victorious cat into the room. My wife saw the cute little cat and screamed again. She calmed down and asked me what I did with it. I told her that I had killed it, and it was squashed against the dresser.

She wanted to get rid of it, although I figured it was safe to leave there--the cat would probably lick it up sooner or later. So my wife got the garbage can, and I showed her the little dead moth.

At that instant, we figured out the miscommunication. She thought I was saying "mouse," not "moth."
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:39, Reply)

Appropriately named, I thought
Cats.
Normally, I love 'em. One part buzzing cuddlesome bundle, one part attention-starved leg-bumper, and occasionally, twelve parts malevolant screeching utter bastard.

This cat was called Spider. Adopted by my half-sister as a kitten and named due to it's tendancy to scale walls as a kitten. Or so i'm told.

Anyway. The upwardly-mobile kitten grew into a great big fat sneering ginger tomcat that radiated a permanent threat of imminent attack.
If this cat could grasp a bottle it'd glass you for looking at him funny.
Except in the presence of aforementioned half-sister, when it'd become a innocent ball of fuzz in return for being constantly plied with people food.

So! I am seven and visiting the aforementioned, with blond locks, blue eyes, and a sunny disposition towards kitties. I toddle over to Spider who glares at me with venomous slitted eyes. 'Just fucking try it', they say. I take absolutely no notice of this and reach out to stroke the nice kitty.
It hisses, yowls, and spits. Claws flex outwards, and it leaps up and attatches itself very firmly to my face like something from Alien, sinking all four claws into the back of my neck and head to the bone.

My folks who are having a quiet drink out in the garden are suprised to see their son run out with a sound of ARGHARGHARGHHELLLLLLLPP, arms flailing and an extremely angry cat for a head.
With a little help, the cat is detatched, bolts over the wall, and everyone shits themselves laughing.

I of course go and hide indoors and avoid the cat like the plague whenever I visit for the next eight years or so.

(Hooray, QotW cherry popped, length joke, hello all)
(Sundayturkey has the biggest mug of tea, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:26, 5 replies)

The tale of the Scorpions
Once upon a time young Mr. Kaol decided to buy some scorpions.
There were three of them, each about an inch long, and identical-looking.
He kept them in a proper enclosure, so that they didn't escape, and fed and watered them regularly.

One day he went to clean them out, as they made rather a mess with the dismembered body-parts of their food.
He took out the water bowl, pieces of bark and flat rocks, counted the three scorpions, and then carefully placed a piece of bark back over them, where they happily stayed as he cleaned out the tank.

He put the lid back on, dropped a couple of baby locusts in as "play-mates", and went to do some computer-related work.

As he sat there, happily typing away, he felt something tickle the back of his neck.
He assumed it has a stray hair, and ignored it.

It wasn't a stray hair.

He felt it tickle him again.

He realised it had legs.

He felt a moment of cold panic, as his fingers brused something hard and slightly pointy. He then felt a nip, and a jab to his finger.

He got up, and walked briskly to a mirror, and looked.

There was a big fuck-off scorpion on the top of his collar. Dilemma... Where did this scorpion come from? It was about twice the size of his three that were safely in their vivarium upstairs...

Our dashing young hero grabbed an empty glass, deftly flicked the unexpected hitch-hiker from his neck into the container, and dumped the extra scorpion in with the others.

Turning his attention to his recently-stung finger, he paniced a little, then realised that this particular species had venom roughly the same in power to a bee.

It turned out that the mysterious "gigantor-scorpion" was in fact one of the three.
It had shed it's skin, and been lifted out of the tank under one of the rocks.
The skin it left behind had fooled our brave hero into thinking it was a whole, real scorpion.

So, that was the tale of how Kaol was stung by a scorpion. Written in the third person. Because I'm bored today.
( Cawl, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:33, 5 replies)

I had a chicken Tarka for dinner last night

it's like a chicken tikka only a little otter.

*runs*

*sings ring of bright water*

*gets confused by otter based tear jerkers*
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:52, 6 replies)

ATTACK!
Just last night "her indoors" was peacefully dozing when a purple headed womb ferret attacked her - apparently smacking it and telling it to fuck off works wonders.

It crawled back into it's nice warm cotton nest but I have a feeling it will rear it's ugly head again tonight.
(Avalanche - Purveyor of sexual deviancy since 1976, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:14, Reply)

Fear the claw...
Last year I was in a pub one bank holiday weekend. Halfway through the evening I noticed the pub had a resident cat which I duely tried to befriend. However, no sooner than I thought I had gained the cat's trust enough to touch it's nose with mine (just something I like to do with cats noses OK)the bloody thing gave me a fierce left hook. This would normally lead me to back off but unfortunately two of its claws had well and truely lodged in my cheek. Cue an agonising minute where I'm desperately trying to prise the two claws out of my face without tearing the crap out of my cheek. All the while the cat is going absolutely apeshit flailing around scratching and biting my arms and face. In the process I knocked over a drink and made a small child cry. Everyone else in the pub just laughed. I still even have a scar to remind me of the event.

Pretty much the only time I've wanted to kick a cat up the chuff.
(Errorist, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:48, 1 reply)

My Parrot
Has just started to swear. Much to the great displeasure of the better half.

She says she used to take pride in the fact that our bird was well behaved.

Now when we wake of a morn it is to the sound (which is undeniably my voice) of 'For Fucks Sake' 'Fuck' 'Fuck' 'Fuck' 'Fuck' ' Oh for Fucks Sake'

He keeps repeating the Fuck and is perfecting it.

I have to try and tell him 'No' when he starts but now its just turned to 'Fucks Sake....NO' 'Fuck...No' 'Fuck'


So to keep in line with the QOTW we are being verbally attacked by our parrot.
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:10, Reply)

What the cunting fuck
there are so many really good suggestions on the fucking board. Why do we get bastard cunting repeats!
(Bazongaloid, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:56, 5 replies)

there was a time
when I saw a shark jump out of the water and eat a bloke hanging down from a helicopter. There might be photo's of it somewhere but I'm not sure.
(Mr.Dog was in love again on, Thu 1 May 2008, 17:42, 3 replies)

Battered by cod.
Despite in a previous post saying that my hobby hadn’t resulted in me being attacked by various denizens of the deep, I now realise that I’m not entirely correct in making that statement.

My dive club used to be involved with the local Aquarium in Tynemouth and various members would take it in turns to dive in the main tank (which was full of local species of fish and the public could walk through via a tunnel). Our job was to clean the inside of the tank – scrape the algae off etc, and also to put on a bit of a show for the punters by feeding the fish.

Having recently qualified, I was particularly keen to do this – it sounded like good fun, plus a chance to dive in sea water that wasn’t as murky as that Austrian bloke’s motives for keeping his daughter hostage for 24 years… Anyhow, come the Saturday and I drive off to the coast, car full of diving gear, and along with a fellow club member am given the talk by the manager of the aquarium. Come our time to immerse ourselves in the tank, we are presented with a couple of buckets of food, and a cloth. Oh, and the problem of accessing the tank, which was through a narrow doorway and up a vertical, rusty ladder designed for an anorexic. We devised a rope and pully system for getting our kit up the ladder, then kitted up on the platform at the top.

Once in the water, it was fantastic – an array of local sea life that could be seen clearly, and which were really quite friendly. Me and my mate put on a bit of a show for the punters, doing handstands and somersaults. At one point, as I was cleaning the glass, I decided to do a ‘comedy’ double take at a piece of algae that wouldn’t budge, took my regulator out of my mouth, licked my finger and then rubbed the inside of the tank in mock indignation (tip: don’t do this, I couldn’t get the taste of sea water out of my mouth for ages). Then it was time to feed the fish…

On opening our buckets of food (basically, dead fish) we found ourselves being bombarded from all sides by dogfish, ling, cod… every scaly little fucker in the tank, to be blunt. I found myself being ‘bitten’ on the head (thank god for neoprene hoods), arms, and legs (ditto for neoprene drysuits), trying desperately to distribute the food evenly, but failing miserably. Within about 45 seconds, a three litre bucket of fish scraps had disappeared, leaving me slightly dazed and my diving mask a bit wonky…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 1 May 2008, 14:39, 1 reply)

Animal House
When I was starting my post-grad:

a) I was late starting, i.e. had missed the beginning of term and there was little in the way of accommodation left except for lodging with local families.

b) I had sweet FA in disposable funds.

So, in the list of local lodgings I managed to find something local and cheap (£45 a week all in, which was good value even 10 years ago).

Just how good value, I was about to find out.

The house was owned by the local hard-drinkin', fag-totin' post-mistress, her sozzled Irish boyfriend, and his dysfunctional daughter, who couldn't be bothered to go to school and didn't know how to get out of the end of the street (seriously).

My landlady liked to style herself as a mini animal rescue home: there were countless small birds in the back, a dog, 22 cats (all in various stages of old age, disability, or cancer), a family of ducks, 2 Canada geese, and 2 run-of-the-mill geese.

The smell of the place was something to behold - shit and piss all over the place. One day I forgot to close my bedroom door and found the one of the one-eyed cats curled up on my bed, and when I shooed him off there was a significant smelly wet patch. I should count myself lucky because he was well known for squirting liquid shit horizontally over everything - he even managed to get the TV square-on from the arm of the sofa once. But I digress...

The attack(s) in question came from the run-of-the-mill gander. His lady friend had a totally buggered wing, and didn't move from the front garden much, and boy was her feller territorial. Every day, every sodding day, I had to run the gauntlet of that fucker.

He'd come at you, wings flapping, head held low, hissing, going for your ankles. He'd nip away at your shins or calves (depending on whether you were backing away or running toward the door) and once he'd got a few bites in and got some purchase, start slamming those wings of his into your legs.

You can imagine what coming in with a couple of bags of shopping was like.

The best policy was to grab him round the neck and propel him down the side alley (listening to his little webbed feet going thwap-thwap-thwap at a somewhat higher-than-normal frequency) and then pelt it round the front and try to get the key in the front door before he'd caught up.

Oh, and they seemed to purely exist on a diet of cabbage and water, so skidding around on thin slimy green shit on the way in or out was also one of the perils to be contended with. It was always on the path and never on the grass, I reckon the beady-eyed bastard did it on purpose.

Length? About 2 months before I could stand no more. My leaving present was to slam his head in the gate several times before getting the hell out of there.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 17:55, Reply)

Picture the scene...
Outside the lovely town of Weymouth, cliffs and fields as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous evening, the sun setting, no clouds in the sky, a warm breeze blowing across the grass.. And then suddenly a tall, welsh, ginger twat running across a field and frantically bolting over a gate as about 20 large, angry, black cows stampeded after him for disturbing their field.
Me and our friend pissed ourselves laughing, and the three of us had to take the long way back, through a field of sheep who just stared at us like possessed clouds.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 23:52, 2 replies)

Squirrel Nutkin
I think I was about 10, when one day my dad noticed a bit of a blockage up by our chimney cowl. So, out from the garage comes his large tickling stick, and sets about poking the offending muck out of the way.
"Quick!" he shouts to my mum in the kitchen. "Get the washing off the line, it's just started to tip it down!".
My mother and I thinks he's lost his marbles, it's a bright sunny day outside. We amble outside to see him staring up, muttering "Bitch" underneath his breath. We follow his gaze to see a squirrel, hanging sideways off the chimney, clinging on with one forepaw and one hindleg, aiming her piss all over him.

We checked out the loft afterwards, and found they'd been helping themselves to my dear old Pa's chess set. Can't have been terribly tasty judging by the mess they left.

My second squirrel incident isn't so much of an attack, but it did bugger us up a bit nontheless.
We had a problem with our guttering - it just wasn't draining properly. My mum thought it probably a bit blocked by rotten leaves. She sticks a Marigolded mitt up the pipe, and sure enough, finds something a bit squishy up there. However, she's not quite able to pull it round the final bend at the bottom... bottom bend is duly dismantled, and what should pop out?

A slightly mushy, discoloured squirrel which had been dead for some time, in a cylindrical shape, looking not too dissimilar to perfectly decanted tin of dog food. We could tell it was a squirrel by the bit of tail left at the end, and the face and paws at the other.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 22:29, 2 replies)

more mozzy stories
yes - Mosquitos from china.

When i was there, we had a weapon of defense - should we see one flying around the apartment, we had a Electric Tennis racket. I have yet to see these over here but are an ace idea.

Instead of the strings being nylon (or whatever they are) they are wire. And connected to batterys which charge up and upon contact with insect - spark it to death...

Trust me this is so much more fun than normal tennis, the flash that comes off is equal to that you see when a fly runs into those Blue lights you see at restaurants.

This is also good fun - when drunk to touch people and give them a good crack on the hand, thigh, foot or arse.

Additional to this we had - what i thought a plug in mosquito repelent. We shared this amongst our selves - as when someone was on night shift we would pas it to them to use, they would plug it in then hand it back that night.

This worked really well for 4-5 weeks, and kept all the mosquitos away.

Until one day. I was using it, there was a high pitched two tone dinging noise coming from it...
i unplugged it and moved into another room, and went back to bed. Only for it to repeatidly go off again... It must need a refill i thought...

it later became apparant that it was infact a wireless doorbell. My friend was locked out for 4 hrs...

good times..
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 14:04, 7 replies)

I had a mate who named his pets
Burn the cat

and

Flush the goldfish
(tree hugger putting the "semen" in "basement"..., Tue 29 Apr 2008, 1:47, 1 reply)

Attack of the demented killer Labrador puppy
Despite my hobby taking me into situations where I could be face to face with a multitude of potentially dangerous creatures of the deep, I am yet to find myself being mauled by a shark, stung by jellyfish, savaged by crabs (no sniggering at the back), or being given a particularly nasty suck by an angry cod (stop it)! Although I did find myself being stalked by a particularly nasty looking barracuda on one occassion whilst diving off Key Largo once, but it didn't do anything - just hung about 3 feet to my right, gazing at me balefully for a bit...

And so, with the most tenuous of links, I find myself recalling what happened when one of my mates came face to face with my unfeasibly cute puppy, circa 1987.

I was 16, and along with my contemporaries, in full ‘O’ level study mode. This invariably meant that we had some free periods at school, which we used in the time-honoured way to bunk off for a bit on the pretence of ‘research’. What this really meant was, given my close proximity to the school, we’d nip back to my house for coffee and biscuits and discuss exam tactics* for an hour, before heading back to class.

It was around this point that the Davros family took ownership of a black Labrador puppy that was too cute for her own good. Way too cute, and blessed with that endearing excess of energy and excitability that puppies seem to possess. At this early point in her puppy career, Tina was still getting to grips with house-training.

One day, me and some mates sauntered back to my house for a de-briefing session.* On opening the door, puppy Tina went her usual ballistic self and started running round the kitchen for no readily apparent reason other than that there were some new people, and that in itself was an exciting prospect. One of the lads, Matt, was a bit of a dog lover, and was immediately bowled over by this black, bouncing ball of fur and feet, and couldn’t resist. Crouching down to her level, he used his doggy magnetism to get her to come and say hello. Which she did, by bounding enthusiastically across the kitchen and launching herself at him.

Catching her expertly in his arms, Matt stood up and, clutching her like a baby, proceeded to coo and aah as she enthusiastically licked his face. Unfortunately for Matt, Tina was sooooo excited that the only way she could express her delight at meeting a new friend was to piss herself copiously, all down his shirt and blazer… And so, for the rest of the afternoon, poor Matt had to sit through the rest of the day’s lessons covered in puppy wee.

Nice.

* Oh, alright, girls. Call it biology revision if you like…


( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 16:29, 5 replies)

Youthful exuberance or animal/sibling cruelty
In my younger days, I was forced to sit on a horse while my family 'trekked' through some merkin national park.

I *hated* horses, but had to do this to satisfy my horse-loving older sister.

To take revenge, I attached some hay to her horse's tail. My horse was immediately behind. The guides took some time to work out why my horse kept biting hers on the bum.

Much hilarity, angry horseness, and beingsenttobedwithoutfood ensued.
( prince-igor si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 15:42, Reply)

and then think snakes
friend of a friend story. sorry.

this woman has owned her pet snake for fifteen years. obv. a snake is the essential companion for someone who lives by themselves. pfft.

she noticed it behaving strangely. she'd find it lying around with its jaws dislocated. it would refuse to eat anything. at night, she was used to it curling up beside her bed but she'd wake and it would be stretched out of the floor.

troubled, she took it to the vet who told her it had been preparing to eat her.

bloody hell. buy a kitten.
(ladyintheradiator, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 1:50, 3 replies)

Crows = Stupid
One day, I heard a very loud bang come from my bedroom, which confused me slightly, what with no-one being in it and all that.

So I went through, and there was a mark on the window.

"Ah," thought I, "some young rapscallion has kicked a ball against my window."

But no. Upon closer inspection, there were patterns on the window. In fact, the distinct pattern of a crow and it's wings fully outspread.

I then looked down, and there was a slightly worse for wear* crow lying on the ground.

Stupid bird.

*Dead
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 11:08, Reply)

Spider bit my bum
Back in '99, husband #1 and I went to see Brian Setzer (of Stray Cats) in concert at an ampitheater in LA.
They have a great bar, it's all open and is surrounded by woods.
I was looking particularly fine that night, as I was super skinny and was wearing hot pink pants trousers (sorry, turning Merkin) with no underwear and a belly revealing tube top.
As I leaned forward to say something to #1, I felt a stinging pain on my bum. "Ouch" squealed I. The pain was getting steadily worse and turning into a burning sensation, so I leg it to the bathroom to find out what's going on.
I took off my trousers and shook them out and a HUGE tree spider scuttled out of the bottom of the trouser leg.
This led to me yelling quite loudly in the stall "fucking hell, I just got bit on my arse by a spider" much to the horror/amusement of my fellow wee-ers.
The bite mark was visible for weeks and a brutal shade of purple.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 17:59, 1 reply)

the swarm of DEATH.
well, not really.

about 10 years ago, my friends and i decided that, as it was rather a lovely day, it would be a good idea to head to the beach with a picnic.
we packed into the car, joanne driving, me in the passenger seat, alison in the back with joanne's 7-year-old twin sisters, toni and leanne. all was well.
there are 2 beaches locally, so we decided to head to the nearest one. it took us only 5 minutes to get there and there were plenty of parking spaces. on such a wonderfully sunny day, the lack of other cars should have been a warning in itself.
we unshipped the kids and started to get the picnic things out of the boot, when we noticed them.
ladybirds. hundreds of them.
they had been hanging around a bush in a huge cloud but, upon seeing us pull up in our bright yellow car, they had come to investigate. we quickly bundled ourselves back into the car and took off for the second local beach 2 miles away.
we soon arrived and were cheered to see several other cars and many happy beachgoers. within minutes, myself and my bikini-clad comrades were setting our picnic lunch out on a blanket, whilst the children paddled in the surf. there were one or two ladybirds, but we didn't mind that. if they'd come from here, there were bound to be a few stragglers.
what we didn't know was that these were not stragglers but an advanced squadron, sent on ahead to scout for victims.
in what seemed only to be seconds, the sky was black with insects. there were millions of them. the main attack force had arrived.
panic set in instantly, with screaming, ladybird-covered people running everywhere. we ran for the car which, due to its cheery paint job, was now covered in a crispy insect coating. we tried sweeping them off with our arms and discovered that ladybirds bite.
the twins were almost hysterical, ladybirds flying into every orifice they could find. trying to fight them off was almost impossible, they outnumbered us by about 1,000,000-1. we told the girls to jump as high as they could, thus dislodging their colourful hitch-hikers before we threw the car doors open and dived in.
a few of them got in with us, of course, but we were away from the main onslaught and could begin trying to calm the twins. apart from the subdued crying, we were fairly silent on the journey home, each of us stunned and a little disturbed by what had happened. ladybirds are supposed to flit prettily around the garden, not attack you.
it's safe to say that i now have ample supplies of both flypaper and bug spray in my house. i'm not going through that again.

length? minutes, but it felt like hours.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 17:46, 8 replies)

Pow!
A the parents of a Uni friend of mine owned a big and very stupid greyhound, and being a greyhound it liked to run around lots.

One evening they took it out for a walk, but seeing it was getting dark early they attached a flashing bike LED light to it's collar to see where it was.

The walk was coming to an end, so the looked out for the flashing light, saw it at the other end of the field and called the dog over.
It ran. Fast.

You know that scene in Alien where the bloke is in the air ducts and the Alien is in there with him, but all you can see is the flashing light on the screen as it got closer and closer? That's pretty much what happened.

This flashing red light got rapidly closer, but before anyone could quite work out if this was going to be a problem, *BAM*. It ran head first, smack into my mate's grandmother and broke her hip!
( Weetobix, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 16:56, Reply)

Pond-Skater Attack
Yes, those things you see zooming about on the surface of the water.
Well, there are two kinds, Pond-skaters, and Water-boatmen. This story is about the latter.

When I was at uni I did a research project that involved collecting water beetles from ponds all over the south of England, taking them back to the lab, cutting their reproductive organs out, and taking photos.
I'm the Jack the Ripper of the insect world.
Anyway, we had to swish a net through the water to get these beetles, and sift through the catch to find the right beetles.

All ok until you find one of these: www.dkimages.com/discover/previews/934/80019831.JPG

They don't look much, but they bite you, inject a poison that breaks down proteins (which you're made of), causing horrific swelling and pain.

I was bitten on the leg by one, and I still have a hard lump there, a few years after.
( Cawl, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 16:12, 50 replies)

My Grannys enormous thoroughbred blue great dane...
stands about 7-8 feet tall on its hindlegs with its brandished gleaming trouser lipstick about the height of the back of an average mans neck when he sneaks up behind you and 'attacks', by which I mean 'rapes'. Never women, just men. I dont visit my Granny anymore. She could die of old age and I wont be there because of that vicious raping giant gay dog and I feel sad. I quite enjoy my Granny's company.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 16:05, 7 replies)

A quick attack, but the results were impressive!
As a young kila girl, I used to ride a nice welsh pony. I was told that he was a “proud cut”-- gelded late and still acted a bit like the stallion he knew he’d once been (sorry men).

One Friday, I was at the ranch waiting for Sue, my best girl pal to arrive from our office (she worked later hours than me). We were going for a ride to take some pictures before the rainy season. Some ranch kids told me that "my" pony’d been laying his ears back and acting funny. I went to go get him, thinking he just needed his ride out.

I stepped into his stall and he seemed fine. Then he laid his ears back, shook his head and
suddenly *boom*! He hit me hard with his open mouth and bit down on my breast, let go and spun around! I fell to the ground, seeing stars, rainbows and little twittering birds, just like in the cartoons. When I came round, the kids were yelling and I dare not hit him in front of them, though the ranch men later said I should have, with a brick or something.

Instead, I stumbled/crawled out of the stall and calmed the kids, then went to wash up and check the damage, which looked like a red mark and sure to be a bruise. The ranch owner, a loony nutjob but desirable to me as she had ponies I wanted to ride, helpfully told me that the pony was treating me like one of his mares because he lurrrves me.

At that point, Sue found me and immediately screamed, “What happened?! You’re white as a sheet!” By then I was giddy and laughing, nothing much, I said, t’horse bit me! She didn’t want me to go riding and said I was acting funny, but I said don’t worry, insisted I’m fiiine so off we went.

Truth be I was little apprehensive and on guard, but the pony behaved so we got our ride in the hills, taking pictures on this last summer ride before saying good bye to the ranch for the season. I took tons of photos of my pal with her pony, she took tons of me with my pony. We finished our ride and cleaned up the ponies and gave them our last loving hugs and kisses goodbye.

I got home and showered and looked at the bite, a mark about a half a hand wide, but the breast was swelling. In fact it was getting redder and also a bit of blue. And quite sore.

By Saturday morning, it had gone Technicolor and I scheduled an appointment with my doc, who laughed, prescribed ice, rest, and “anything but ponies.”

By Sunday, I had to buy support bras to stop the swollen purple-green and blue thing from moving as it hurt so.

By Monday, the entire area was "involved," much worse! I went to work and, in response to my email, Sue called me over to her cube stall and whispered urgently, what happened, what do you mean it’s worse, what does it look like? I laughed and told her, oh I’m quite proud of this, it’s HUGE! If only the other one matched! Aubergine in color, shape and size! I of the giant purple boob! This was too much, and Sue begged to see it.

We giggled and checked that no one was in the area and I lifted my shirt and, gingerly, pulled aside my bra, and she gratifyingly oohed and aaahed at the size, the color and the shape.

I said I have this insane desire to pull up next to those big American 18-wheeler trucks and pull my blouse up to show it off!

As an added bonus, Sue showed me pictures of me that day, huge smiles, laughing, looking coyly at the camera and hugging the pony. Then, she whipped out the pictures of her that I had taken. Every single one of them was a complete blur! I’d been in shock and was shaking the whole time!

Apologies for the length, as this is my first and I wanted you to take your time!

*pop*
( kila is reading clocks upside-down as usual, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:13, 1 reply)

Bloody Animal Activists...
Having lived on a farm in Ireland for a while, I'd like to think I'm slightly more clued up on the 'countryside code' than most - i.e. don't leave gates open, don't worry livestock, don't engage in stupid acts of wannabe eco-warrior terrorism in the name of animal rights... that sort of thing.

However, some people....

When I was but a young'un - we visited the grandparents on their rather nice plot of farmland in Kerry. Now said Grandparents had given up the farming business and Grandpa Coops had taken up fishing... in a big way. He'd got all his mates down from the pub, hired a JCB and dug himself a virtual fish farm where the grazing land once stood. Then filled it with freshwater breeding stock. Then went even more eco-friendly and started to encourage wild deer, game birds.etc onto the land to make the place look like the set of a sickly Disney movie - there where wild animals everywhere.

Then one day, some well meaning, guardian reading, leftie, sandle wearing goddamn hippies broke into a mink farm about 15 miles away...

...and all hell broke loose. Previously contained species of mink (think half rat, half ferret - but with the eating habits of vampires) spread out over the countryside and started to breed. and eat. fish.
From Granddad's ponds.

Overpopulation and the resulting carnage meant that at the tail-end of this mink escapage, the little bastards were getting more desperate for food and were willing to take more risks - small dogs, cats and even the odd pet rabbit were attacked and mauled. There were scare stories about not leaving prams outside "just incase".

So imagine my horror at the scene of devistation one moring - half eaten brown trout everywhere, lying on the banks of the pond. It looked like the invasion scene from Saving Private Ryan. So we cleared up as best we could, then hit on a cunning plan - cut back some of the vegitation that surrounded the biggest pond, and open up what we later called 'the killing field'. We set traps, laid bait and then sat on the back porch and waited - armed with a shotgun each. Soon, we had our first victim, the slimey rodent had tried to make it to the pond, but didn't quite get there. That didn't stop some of his mink brothers and sisters trying too. One by one the little bastards tried to attack, all were sent to furry hell by a 12bore...

Apologies for length, but it had 2 barrels.
( HSDriver was probably still at work on, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 8:38, 3 replies)

A bird shat on my windscreen.
I gave up on internet dating.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 8:33, 1 reply)

Goats
Last year, I visited "Africa Alive", in Suffolk. There was the usual petting area, complete with the usual goats. One of these goats appeared, to me, to be either very fat, or very pregnant.

Now, in the petting area, there was one of those machines; insert 20p, turn the handle, get about 10g of generic goat food, and feed it to the goats. Good fun.

This 20p-machine was bolted to a wooden platform, itself bolted to a brick pillar, holding up the sheltered area. Mrs Pregnant Goat had learned that, by standing on her hind legs, keeping her front legs on the pillar, and smacking her horned head against the 20p machine, she could get free pellets. Smart goat. Greedy.. but smart.

She was only getting one or two pellets at a time, though. So she was more than glad to move out the way while a naïve human comes along and gets more pellets, more easily. Mrs Pregnant Goat would then shove the human out the way, and eat the pellets straight from the tray.

I thought this to be hardly fair, as there were other goats, and they seemed to be surviving on the pellets that Mrs Pregnant Goat was accidentally throwing on the floor. Sometimes, she wouldn't care. Other time, she'd see this "theft", get pissed off, and headbutt the younger, smaller, non-impregnated goats.

So I decided to feed the smaller goats. I stuck in my 20p, turned the handle, and as Mrs Pregnant Goat rose up to push me out the way, I was ready. I pushed back. Shocked, she went to all fours, and headbutted me in the shins. The bitch. Undeterred, I did it again. This time, she rose on her hind legs, 'kicking' at me with her front legs, so I had to step back out the way. No way I'm getting into a fist-fight with a pregnant goat. As I stepped back, and as she returned to all fours, she lunged at me with her horns. Smacked me right in the shin. It really hurt. It bruised. Being the brav smart chicken I am, I gave up at this point. I'd managed to feed one or two of the kids pottering around, but it wasn't worth it anymore. I left the enclosure, and the Pregnant Goat followed me to the gate, mocking. When she was sure I'd left, she returned, victoriously, to her pillar, and started smacking her head against the machine again.

Insert appropriate "length" joke here.
( Thinker, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 0:53, 1 reply)

my shirt
One summer day I was surveying a field in Clearwater, Florida. It was very hot and I had to chop a line through some brush so I took my shirt off and left it lying on the tailgate of the truck. A liitle while later I heard the guys I was working with laughing and laughing, and I came out of the woods to find that a horse had ambled up and decided to eat my shirt. You understand, these jerks didn't try to dissuade the damned horse, they just stood around pointing and laughing. By the time I got to the horse only one sleeve was still sticking out of its mouth.

As I did not want to spend the rest of the day with no shirt, I grabbed hold of the sleeve and tugged and pulled on it, defaming the horse at the top of my lungs, until the entire shirt came back out of the upper end of the horse's alimentary tract, intact but all covered with horse slobber and little puncture marks and missing a button or two. Stupid horse.
(wkiernan, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 23:41, 2 replies)

Owl outrage
After a typically drunken student night out I was walking home down a rather dark road lined with trees. Receiving a sudden blow to the head I turned around to defend myself to see... nobody at all. Shrugged and carried on home.

Woke up next day to a pillow reminiscent of a butcher's slab, so I ambled off to the doc to be told that I was one several owl-attackees in that road. Anway, the head-slashes didn't need stitches, just antibiotics. Messy though, glad I'm not a mouse.

I've also been bitten by a mole (long story) & spat on by a llama.

Some people have a natural empathy with animals - but not me.
(grumpypolecat, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 20:12, 2 replies)

Stampede
Well, many moons ago me and a few friends were on Headingly Golf Course in Leeds collecting and nibbling mushrooms long after most people had gone to sleep and long before most of you were even a twinkle in your grandpappy's y fronts.

As the dawn broke properly over the surrounding countryside (you can imagine the scene) we decided that strolling home would be a good idea. Now, walking whilst both stoned and hallucinating is not a easy task but we managed as best we could for we had intelligence on our side, being three lawyers, a doctor and two trainee policemen.

One of these trainee policemen (who is still serving, bless) was striding out ahead and had disappeared from view over the brow of a small hill. We were diligently following in a procession somewhat reminiscent of a human interpretation of Brownian motion when, from over the hill, came our chum, running as if the world was chasing him. Indeed it was for as he passed us travelling at, it would be fair to say, a fair rate of knots, he gasped "stampede".

We took in his ashen and terrified visage and promptly collapsed laughing before finding ourselves being run into and over by a herd of very large, very quick and very directionally determined cows.

Non-plussed we rose, dusted ourselves off and walked the rest of the way home without further incident. Probably.

He has no recollection of this incident. I just rang him and asked his secretary. He sounded cross.
(Mediaslut, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:53, Reply)

..got mugged by a muppet drummer once....
...oh.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:39, Reply)

East Coast
When I was young, in order to give my parents a break over the summer, my grandmother would take me and my siblings on holiday to a non-descript little seaside town on the east coast of the UK. It had all the standards, a decrepit arcade, loads of fish and chip shops and a rather nice stretch of beach.

But beneath the exterior lurked... a horror. Something that H. P. Lovecraft would have given his left testicle (and maybe even his right) to have caught but the barest glimpse of. The bravest man in the kingdom would have willingly licked John Major's quivering white buttocks before taking on this peril.

Seagulls. Winged demons of the most dreaded kind.

The scene was an utter farce, almost like something out of a cartoon. Visualise for yourself, a small innocent blond-haired little child happily rambling along the beach, with parents following a good fifty feet behind. This was back in the days when paedophiles didn't roam freely and swoop down on such children from the shadows and carry them off in their paedomobiles to be strapped into the Abuse-O-Mat 9000 (or at least that's what the Daily Mail wants me to believe).

Now, this child was carrying a sandwich. A few seagulls were following him. Occasionally, he would throw them a crumb or two. And they seemed to like it, pecking at it, then bouncing along after him. We watched as he passed out of sight under a pier.

Then we heard a scream. Full doppler effect as this red-faced creature, legs pounding like a steam engine ran back the way he came, screaming at the top of his lungs.

And following him was what seemed to my young mind, a biblical plague of seagulls that Moses himself would have been proud of. Though it was probably only about fifty or so. The sandwich was missing by this point, and we think he was lucky to have any fingers left.

Tragic, certainly, and likely to give a child a permanent phobia of birds. What was more amusing is when he made it back to Mum and Dad, who hadn't run after him... they were too busy pissing themselves with laughter, though thankfully we didn't crack up. The woman defended her scruffy little offspring with her bag - swinging it through the air again and again until the flock dispersed. And two or three stunned/dead seagulls lying on the beach. After a hug, the parents got another sandwich out of a rucksack and gave it to the boy. Who happily skipped along the beach again.

And went under the pier again.

This time we couldn't hold back the laughter and got a set of rather evil looks. Once they'd fought off the seagulls.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:27, 2 replies)

I was attacked by a ninja slug once....
Same park in Coventry as the wasps incident. I was rather pissed one night and play-fighting with my girlfriend when I was grappled to the ground and lay there laughing like the pissed student I was. I got up and we went on our merry way back home. We all got to the house when my other friend peered at the top of my head and saw a slug laying there on a leaf on top of my head. I did the girly thing of screaming and waving my arms about and knocked the slug off my head. There was no serious injuries apart from the terrible hangover I had the next day.

Thank you for letting me share that with you.
( girlinthehole, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:52, Reply)

Poo, wasps, piranhas and alligators
Well - if the mods can pearoast the question, I can pearoast an answer

My school saw it fit to try to kill the sixth-form in interesting ways; so it was that, in the summer of 1995, just after my A-Levels, I found myself a member of a month-long expedition to Ecuador.

In the course of the expedition, we spent most of our time in the various parts of the country's highlands - but we also spent a week in the jungle. For several blissful days, we lived in tents in a clearing by a lake in primary jungle. We built balsa rafts and went fishing for piranha, daring each other to dangle our feet over the side as we threw in bits of raw meat as bait. We were more careful near the alligators.

This being primary jungle, there was no loo. (I can't remember what we did for drinking water.) Excretory requirements were met by nipping into the forest with a shovel and finding a convenient bush.

Caught by the need to poo, I wandered off in search of the perfect place - and, I believed, found it. A vine or branch had grown towards the ground from about waist height; all I had to do was locate a convenient spot along the hypoteneuse where the bough was at the correct elevation, and to sit. None of that undignified and poorly-balanced squatting for me.

We had been told that we ought to dig ourselves a little pit before performing, the easier to cover our filth in the aftermath. I must have been a bit needy, because I decided to shit first and worry about burial later.

How was I to know that the local wasps had chosen to build their nest in the drop-zone?

"What the...?" I blurted as I realised that there was a large delegation from the local insect neighbourhood watch who wanted a stern word with my behind. "Oh, fuck."

I tried to bat them away, but they were having none of it, and they were now buzzing angrily all around me.

Through the trees, I spotted the glint of the small lake next to which we were camped. There was only one thing to do: outrun the wasps. I half-ran, half stumbled towards the shore, pulling my shorts up as I went.

But the wasps were determined and athletic. They kept pace - and now their blood was up. In my mind they wore little insect red jackets, blew little insect horns and had packs of little insect dogs in pursuit. What was I to do now? There was only one option. I jumped into the water.

The water, you'll remember, that was home to piranhas and alligators.

Fortunately for me, piranhas apparently only get blood-lust at certain times of the year (which is why our fishing only yielded one or two), and they largely ignored me. I can't explain why the alligators ignored me too. A sense of pity, perhaps. I thanked them quietly when I saw them later.

I climbed out of the lake and wandered back into the jungle to find the shovel...
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:08, 13 replies)

Horses

biting at the front, kicking at the back and rape in the middle.

Stay well clear.

.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:58, 5 replies)

Oh, and in case I forget
My guilty pleasure is answering QOTW six weeks late!

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHALOLOMG!!!!!111!!!LOLMINGEHAHAHAHAHAHA

*sodomises a goat in disgust*
(Bazongaloid, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:58, 7 replies)

Dog Ass Assault.
The family dog of the D clan is a Bitsa of advanced years and placid temprament. In thirteen or so years he's never so much as looked at me funny.
His bottom is a different story. His bottom hates everybody and everything and wants us all to die screaming.
Take a tramp. Feed him nothing but sprouts and Campbells meatballs for a month. Then take off his underpants and feed them to a goat. Then feed the goat to a dog along with a bucketful of beansprouts and hate.
Now try to imagine this wafting under your nose with no warning whatsoever.
Even the dog tries to run away from the stench. Which means he just drags it around the room.
I love my dog. My dog loves me. His arse, however, makes me want to pull my own nose off.
(Big D, Thu 1 May 2008, 19:52, Reply)

A late entry
Way back in the mists of time, I went to stay with a cousin.

He lived in the middle of some woods, and we went out exploring, and generally having fun.

One day we were wandering through the trees, when we came across a manky old football, half buried in some leaves.

He, being a few years older than me, realised what it was, and dared me to kick it as far as I could. So, young Kaol ran up to it, and gave it a mighty kick.

But... My foot went straight through it.

Bees started coming out.

Bees started chasing us.

I don't think I've ever run as fast as that...

Due to karmic balance, I didn't get stung once, but my cousin, the instigator, had to go to hospital.
( Cawl, Thu 1 May 2008, 18:56, Reply)

I wouldn't want to be attacked by this...

( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 1 May 2008, 18:18, 2 replies)

You're all ruining the QOTW.
Too many pages of utter shit.

Grow the fuck up.
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 1 May 2008, 16:49, 10 replies)

some of you
deserve to have the faces eaten off you by animals for these lousy puns.

or keyboards stolen at any rate.

so, back on topic: it didn't quite attack me, but it looked as if it might.

few years ago. summer heatwave. i was a law student living in a girlie houseshare and had a stupidly enormous bedroom. it was baking hot, and i was sleeping with all the windows open. i'd been tempted all summer, but had learned about so many criminal cases where robbers and rapists came in through the window that i hadn't dared. oh fuck, who am i kidding, i was terrified of moths and daddy long legs coming in, ok??

but this night was hot enough to dispel the Fear. or most of it.

at about 2am i was woken by a slithering, scraping noise. it sounded like a bag of bones being dragged along the top of a coffin. i tried to ignore it, but it carried on scraping.

i sat up and almost screamed in horror at the sight opposite me: a shadowy, sweaty figure, with hair sticking up all over the - oh, wait. that would be the mirror.

but the scraping continued. forgetting i was starkers, i decided to investigate. i crept all the way across the floor to one of the sash windows and peered cautiously out.

there was no murderer brandishing a hook. there was no drunken would be rapist propping his ladder against the wall. no enormous spider scrabbling after me with his 8 evil pincers.

instead, there was a gigantic fox doing its best to climb the tree outside my window. i didn't know foxes could climb trees (and this one was really crap). for a moment we both froze. we stared at each other. then the fox tipped back its fat orange head and barked at me!!! of all the nerve! it was saying "fuck off back to bed," i know it was.

anyway, this point, we were both distracted by the wolfwhistles and shouts of a huge group of lads coming home to the aussie dosshouse opposite (lovely people but about 15 of them rented this one bed flat, argh, they made so much noise!).

at this point i remembered i was in the nak, and hastily fell backwards on my sofa so as not to blind the antipodean population of west london. the fox legged it as quickly as an obese space hopper shaped fox can move.

does anyone know why foxes climb trees? do they eat pigeons or birds eggs by any chance??
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 1 May 2008, 13:20, 18 replies)

Nation of Korea vs Shitty Dog (2007)
A mate's mum and sister recently bought a creature I don't even consider a dog...A nasty, patchy-haired little sod of a Pug/Poodle cross; suffice to say it fills all the yappy stereotypes of small dogs. Being possessive as hell, it goes absolutely mental at anyone who walks into the house and threatens its monopoly on attention (no problems are had with the Labrador cross that also lives there).

So whenever I glide through its bitchy deluge, I take great pleasure in its ineffective, ballistic rage at the recitation of the following cheerful mantra:

"Season oil; garlic, one clove, ginger, 5 centimetres. Add bean sprouts, water chestnuts, mixed fresh vegetables, stir fry over medium heat. Add dog. Serve over egg noodles."

When animals attack: break out the wok. I'm above you in the food chain, you little shit.
(Cheesecake Like a cake...But cheese, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 21:40, Reply)

Bloody Seagulls.
A couple of years ago I was swimming out to a big rock about a mile off the coast down here. When I finally got out there, me and some friends climbed to the top when all of the sudden, about a hundred seagulls took flight.

Each and every one then took it in turns to try and dive-bomb us, and scare us off 'their' rock.

After almost taking hits from a fair few, I decided to fight back, so twatted one with a bodyboard. Hit the fucker for six, right out to sea, and he/she/it didn't get up for round two.

Now I still feel slightly guilty about this today, but then I remember that I was actually aiming at another kamikazee feathered fiend when I swang. Therefore I didn't mean to twat it, and I can live my life guilt free. Good stuff.
( Harold Bishop's Love Child some sort of terrifying sex magician., Wed 30 Apr 2008, 19:00, Reply)

bobbies helmet
When I was a wee spikeypickle, still living with my parents and being all of 13years old, I sat playing on my old Amstrad CPC6128 (which I still have and still use). Twas summertime and the sun was shining. I had a chest at the end of my bed on which my trusty Amstrad did reside. Being summer I was wearing shorts. They were long, baggy and made of a shell suit type material (not that that is relevant but nevermind)

A little tickle was felt on my bobbies which I gave a little rub over the material. The little tickle turned into intense pain. Shooting up and dropping my shorts revealed a little wasp staring up at me with its evil little waspy eyes. The little bastard had somehow got in my shorts, decided my bobbies helmet was a pretty colour and gone to investigate. My rubbing had obviously got it so excited that it stung me......right on my tip and just to the side of my japs eye.

I cried.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 15:24, 4 replies)

Bugger...
.
Bit of a back story here. Me and the Mrs have recently become the proud owner of a shiny new kitten. Called Meep ('cos that's what she said when I asked her her name...)


Anyway.I've been waiting all week for one special moment. The moment when Mrs Legless was home and Meep did her "attack Legless in a cute and endearing way". Then the Mrs was going to take a pic and I'd post it up here. Would have been a sure-fire vote getter. B3tans are suckers for cute pictures of cats.

But it isn't to be as Mrs Legless has been rushed to hospital to have an emergency op. Going yellow tended to freak out her colleagues. So I've spent the day, bricking it, in case something went wrong. They don't call hospitals "The Dying Place" for nothing you know.

But all turned out well. A few quick slashes by a surgeon, dig around with pointy metal hook and drag out offending organ, cut the bastard into tiny bits and the job's a good 'un. She now weighs slightly less by about the weight of a gall bladder.

Next fight is to try and stop her going straight back to work.

Oh - and the cute attack my cat makes? It stands on the back of the couch, puts it's paw on my head and then starts to chew the top of my skull. I was going to post it up with the caption "BRAINZZZZ"

Cheers all

and a special thanks to the guy upstairs who made sure nothing went wrong during the op. I owe you one. I'll sacrifice a virgin when I can but they're a bit thin on the ground here in Melbourne...
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 13:22, 19 replies)

I might be an animal soon
I've just been on my dinner break in the company staff room when the HR woman burst into the room and decided to give us a lecture on the state of the room. This consisted of her sreeching "you're all pigs" and pointing at me and a number of other workmates in a strange spazzy way.

My guess is that she's seen the film Willow too many times and thinks the scene where the evil queen turns the human army into pigs can be done in the real world.

If this works and I am turned into a pig then I will attack the stupid tart from HR, making this post appropriate for the QOTW.

In the meantime I'll just walk around the office yelling "Madmartigan!" in a goat voice.



EDIT: Still no magical transformation as yet, but have sent an email to HR biatch requesting a keyboard for my PC that's trotter friendly (just in case).
(mon bison powered by magnets, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 13:16, 3 replies)

He didn't attack, but he should have.
I have a friend called Tessa, she bought herself a cute little kitten, and asked me for suggestions as to what to call it, so I said Tickles.

She didn't listen though, she called him Jeremy.
What a fucking stupid name for a cat.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 9:37, 57 replies)

Maybe not strictly on topic but made me snigger a couple of times...

Especially at the "he took my trousers down" and the judge's summing up.

Thought I'd share:

"Extract from the Yorkshire Evening Post:

A drunk who claimed he had been raped by a dog was yesterday jailed for 12 months by a judge. Martin Hoyle, 45, was arrested by police after a passing motorist and his girlfriend found a Staffordshire bull terrier, called Badger, having sex with him at the side of a road in Huddersfield, West Yorkshire.

Prosecutor Ben Crosland said the couple had stopped to help because they thought Hoyle was being attacked by the animal. But when they got closer they saw that he had his trousers round his ankles, was down on all fours and the dog was straddling him from behind.

"The defendant mumbled something about the dog having taken a liking to him," said Mr Crosland. "The couple were extremely offended and sickened by what they saw." Another passing motorist contacted the police and Hoyle was arrested as he walked with the dog down the road.

Hoyle, of East view, Marsh, Huddersfield, told police "I can't help it if the dog took a liking to me. He tried to rape me."

He repeated the rape allegation at the police station and added "The dog pulled my trousers down." Hoyle, who has had a long-standing alcohol problem, was jailed for 12 months after he admitted committing an act which outraged public decency.

His barrister said Hoyle had no memory of the incident because of his drunken state, but was now very remorseful and incredibly embarrassed.
Jailing him, Judge Alistair McCallum told Hoyle "Never before in my time at the bar or on the bench have I ever had to deal with somebody who voluntarily allowed himself to be buggered by a dog on the public highway. Frankly it is beyond most of our comprehension. It is an absolutely disgusting thing for members of the public to have to witness."

Apparently genuine too:

www.museumofhoaxes.com/hoax/weblog/comments/3739/

lol
(H K Phooey, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 18:41, 2 replies)

I hate dogs and cats
And most of the stories about them on here this week have been fucking boring.

So, in an act of hypocrisy, I'm going to post a story about being attacked by a dog.

(This one is pretty boring too)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many years ago, when I was a very young man, about six or seven, we had people across the road who had a dog that they used to let run about the place.
This dog, with the wonder of hindsight, was a collie-sized mongrel puppy, and really bouncy.

To my young self it was bigger than me, and intent on knocking me down to kill me by eating my face.
Every time I left the house this one-headed Cerberus would run up and jump at me, and I would get the fear and flee.

One day I decided that I'd had enough, so armed myself with a walking stick, put on a huge pair of Wellington boots (my Dads, I think, must've been up to my crotch), oven mitts and topped off the protective ensemble with a small colander on my head.

I marched out to the battlefield to face my Grendel-like foe.

Right on cue the bastard hell-spawn ran at me, but this time I stood firm, shut my eyes and managed to score a lucky hit right in the poor creature's knackers.

It whimpered, ran off, and never bothered me again.
I had won.

The end.
( Cawl, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 12:17, 5 replies)

My best friend *long*
Ozzy is best described as a regular black feline by most, but to me she's affectionately known as stealth killer due to her ability to sneak up on people and scare the crap out of them. This is how my ex first thought of her upon meeting Ozzy, but now he knows better.

I'd just moved in with the ex and both cats were shut away in the spare room so they could get used to the new house one room at a time - obviously I'd go see them often and make sure they had food and water and give them cuddles and such. I left the room, but forgot to latch it properly as I got back into bed with the ex for some sexy time.

So we start kissing and playing with each others hair, my hand drifts down to his rapidly growing cock and pretty soon I shift the kissing from his lips downwards, paying special attention to his nipples, his belly button...moving ever downwards. Then just to tease him I ignore his pulsing cock and begin licking and kissing the insides of his thighs, all around his groin area, but still not touching his cock.

I take one of his balls in my mouth and gently suck, turning it over with my tongue coating it in saliva, I then pay special attention to his other ball, suckling it like a gentle piglet hungry for milk. He's almost screaming at this point, desperate for me to wonderful things to his angry red shaft, so I give it a quick but long lick all the way along the underside. He trembles and begs for more. I smile and give another furtive lick.

Whether or not Ozzy noticed him grab my head and force me down onto his cock and start plotting revenge upon the nasty naked man or if she just didn't like him, I'll never know as she's not saying. I end up giving him the blowjob of his life and he's lying there shuddering for some time afterwards with his eyes closed. I get up to go brush my teeth, when I hear him moaning from the bedroom. I wonder what's the deal, then figure maybe he's having a wank - he did that a lot with full vocal effects - so I stop in to see the cats again. Only I cant find Ozzy stealth killer. I look under the spare bed, in cupboards, even check the window ledge knowing that I haven't had the window open since last night.

I run back into the room to tell the ex that Ozzy's missing when I spot her. She's lying between his open legs inspecting his member with interest. She sees me, and I could swear I see her leer as she does the wiggly bum thing and then launches her attack.

The ex was never quite the same after he picked himself up from across the room, penis intact but only just.

And Ozzy, she bolted as soon as she realised her prey was attached to the big shouty man and went back to the spare room to wash herself.

I love that cat.

No apologies for length, about 6ft across a room stark bollock naked as far as I recall.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 11:49, 4 replies)

A pretty shit story really
But i'll tell anyway.

My parents had a big dumb Golden Retriever named Holly. I had only lived with it for a few years before i moved out but i loved the big lump.

So, parents decide to go on holiday and dont want to put the mutt in a doggy hotel.

They ask me to look after her whilst they swan around Mexico for 3 weeks. No problem, id love to look after her, i do miss her after all.

So, they drop her round on the way to the airport, she seemed a little scared but managed to calm her down later that day with a massive curry i was eating. Next morning i head off to work and leave the back door open do she can do her business outside.

It was a windy day and the door must have closed.

The sight i came home too i will never forget, there was shit everywhere, and i mean everywhere, on the walls/stairs/doors/carpet/kitchen/TV/Sofa and worst of all dog.

She must have had great fun rolling in her shit all day and running around the house.

The sight of her sitting by the door covered in crap with a massive grin will never leave me. I had to get in cleaners that normally deal with the dead to deal with it.

Not good
(Lanceuppercut, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 8:11, 1 reply)

Rabbits!
I love animals me, and animals love me back. I have always been able to approach any animal, big or small, and strike up an instant rapport with them. All that is, except for rabbits.

I don't know what it is, but every single one of the long eared bastards has it in for me. If I dare to put my hand anywhere near a rabbit, it'll go for me. All of them. Even the rabbits in petting zoos that have been prodded, pulled, poked, and tormented by all manner of snot-nosed brats will go for me if I even think about petting them. It's like I'm the anti-bunny or something.

Bunch of floppy, stroppy cunts, the lot of them.
( Damocles wants no part of your debauchery, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 23:22, 3 replies)

Does this count?
A blue-tit has been attacking my living room window for the past few days. Just keeps flying straight into it. By the end of the day he looks rather dishevelled, only to re-group over night and start afresh in the morning.
(hutchers, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 10:24, 3 replies)

don't worry about the spiders...
a long time ago, when i was very young, there was a 'reptile park' about an hours drive up the coast. this place also had lots lovely native fauna - kangaroos, emus etc.

also when i was very young i was in the brownies (do they still exist? i'm talking the junior girl guides thing, not the delicious fudgy chocolatey cakes nor anything poo related...)

anyway, the brownie pack were taken off on a bus trip to visit the reptile park. the park sold bags of 'food' so that all the little kiddies could get up close and personal to feed the animals. after purchasing a bag i wandered off to find a friendly hungry marsupial or two.

what i got was a crazy beady eyed emu that ran full pelt towards me and snatched the bag from me. i ran off screaming only to be chased by a big male kangaroo that thought i still had some goodies for him. i don't think i have ever run so fast or screamed so much in my life.

i never knew what the 'food' in those bags was but i'm pretty sure it was the 60/70's version of crack - those creatures were prepared to attack a ten year old child to get their fix.
(chameleon61, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 5:49, 3 replies)

my housemate used to have
a knitted toy she called "Fluffy the Cat-Dog", because it was a bit crap and you couldn't tell what it was meant to be.

"woof! meow!" she'd say.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 22:45, 2 replies)

My one resounding memory of being a child of the seventies.....
is having dogs roaming our estate and trying to sniff our crotches. Every bloody time we went to the playground they would come for some sniffing action. Very upsetting for a young girl. Maybe it's why I don't like wearing skirts.
( girlinthehole, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 15:04, 34 replies)

Not Many People
.
Can claim that they've been bitten and mauled by a lion and lived to tell the tale.

Well I have.

Want to hear the whole story?


Edit:

OK. Here's what happened. It's a bit crap but it does mean that I can tell the tale in pubs about my lion experience.

It was when Lambton Lion Park (is that still going) had just opened in the early '70's and the Legless clan descended on it. It was a bit crap. I mean, rainy North_east England is no match for the majestic savannah of Africa - even if you do paint your Land Rovers to look like zebras.

As part of the park they had a petting zoo. And in this zoo they had some 6 week old lion cubs that we kids were allowed to hold. So there's me. A scruffy proto-Legless proudly holding a lion cub when it decided to sink it's teeth into my thumb (that's bitten by a lion) and then proceeded to suck the life out it. When it couldn't get any milk it registered it's disappointment by raking it's back legs down my arm (and there's the mauling). Almost raised a welt it did....

Cheers



Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:56, 18 replies)

A couple of years ago
I was in Dundee minding my own business, smoking a cigarette when a mutant chav spawn (about 8 or 9) wanders up and demands "Give us a cigarette ya ginger faggot!" (I can't spell the Dundee accent)

I looked at him, and then said (words changfed a bit from what I actualy said) "I'm going to tell you three things kid. One, you're not old enough, two, I'm not ginger, three, in calling me a faggot you've lost the right to even speak to me never mind ask for a smoke so he can just fuck right off." The little mutant then kicked me in the shins and ran off.

Maybe this should have been in the last QOTW...but I maintain that chavs are not humans and he looked like a cross between a rat and a shaved ferret.
(Teran Thinks Pogonophobia is funny, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:02, 3 replies)

Flies
Here in Australia we have the flies, often in swarms. One day when on a picnic with my bitchy ex, out in a really lovely secluded spot miles away from anywhere, no sooner had we got our blanket/hamper/goodies sorted than we were descended upon by a huge swarm of buzzing bastard flies. This was a serious swarm too, even by Australian standards: several feet deep and several feet thick. In fact, there were so many of them that they encased my ex and carried her off! I never saw her again.

Well, you bought the dingo story...
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 5:06, Reply)

Llama
A few years ago I was visiting the Isle of Wight (lovely place, incidentally), and made a trip to a zoo, can't remember which one.
Anyway, I wandered over to the llama enclosure. While I was stroking the nose of one such beast, he decided to test my shirt for edibility. Unfortunately, I thought he was trying to get at my juicy flesh, and so I punched the poor thing on the nose. He relented and I got out of there as fast as could. I still have the shirt, and there is still a green stain, which still smells of llama dribble despite multiple washes.
(steadfastmeat Laconic ham, perhaps?, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:01, Reply)

Polar Bear Trepanning
A friend of mine is a biologist who went on a field trip to Northern Manitoba, which is Polar Bear country.

You should understand that despite the Grizzly's reputation, the Polar Bear is the smartest, biggest and most dangerous bear in the world. Standing on their hind legs, they can reach 11 feet tall, they can run 30 miles an hour and they will stalk their prey for days, swimming through lakes, rivers and under the ice of the frozen arctic ocean.

Anyway, the team of biologists had split up leaving one of their colleagues behind. They were heading back to camp when one of them noticed that a bloody great bear was dragging their pal away by his head.

He knew better than to struggle, so he played dead and stayed limp as the bear backed away, dragging him for about a half a mile.

The boys pulled out a high-powered rifle and dispatched the beast, and the biologist survived, though not without four bear-tooth shaped holes in his head.

Which is to say that Steve Irwin is a fucking pussy. Or a right girl's blouse. Or whatever.
(TommyShanks, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:06, Reply)

What bunnies do best
when we got our pet rabbit, he was just a wee ball of fluff. Happy to be picked up, cuddly and soft.

Inevitably, he didn't stay that way for long.

In the fullness of time, he reached his present size (massive) and in due course, sexual maturity. I can't remember how old he was at the time, but we knew. Oh yes, we knew.

He shagged everything in the garden. Except the cat, who was too fast and too good at climbing.

The kids couldn't leave any toys lying around (which taught them a valuable lesson) or it ended up covered in icky bunny cum.

The final straw, and the one which got the appointment made at the vet, was the tent. Yes, tent. Mucho cheapo tent, not meant for camping (I don't do camping, darling) but just for the girls to play in.

The little furry love god started humping the corner of the tent. I chased him away from it. He moved to the next corner and started humping there. I chased him away. He moved ... well you get the picture. He would not give up on his attempt to become the first mammal to impregnate a blue tent. I ended up grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and putting him back in his cage. Two days later, he went to the vet and had his nuts cut.

I had to take him and pick him up (MrWitch refused to have anything to do with it) and he bore a grudge against me for weeks (the rabbit, not MrWitch). Still, it stopped him humping for rabbitkind, so money well spent.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:37, 1 reply)

I got attacked by a shark... while out of the water.
University "field course", meaning "excuse to go to the seaside in Scotland".
We went out on one of the field station's research boats when they were sampling, i.e. putting a big net down and seeing what they dredged up.
The caught a little 2-foot long shark, but weren't interested in studying that. One of the crew passes it to me to chuck back, and it bends itself around 180 degrees and lunges for my leg. It just gets my trousers, so I don't notice until I look down to see why it's stuck.

Picture:
tinypic.com/view.php?pic=sfbajd&s=3
( Labmonkey last thought about having another coffee on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:31, 7 replies)

I was savaged by a Leopard the other day
When I say a Leopard, I actually mean my small pet leopard gecko, and when I say savaged I mean it put it's mouth over the end of my finger and squeezed with toothless jaws.

But I did let out a big girly scream though and shake the fucker off my finger, only to see her arc gracelessly through the air only to land on the carpet between my 2 cats....(she escaped untwatted).

Of the many lizard bites I have received in my time it was the least painful. Top Tip - don't get bitten by a Water Dragon.
(Mookystink is living on stolen toast, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:20, 3 replies)

bindun?
I've got a killer pussy.

*strokes it*
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:06, 8 replies)

When I lived at teh parents
I was astounded to walk into my room and find 2 of my mothers cats on my decks recording the mix on an old school tape player.

A clear cut case of When Animals 8-Track

/sorry
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:27, 7 replies)

when our cat's companion died
she obviously thought we'd done something terrible. to avoid a similar fate, she kept leaving us little presents...

skinless, headless mice
(ladyintheradiator, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 20:51, 3 replies)

Bantam Bastard
I grew up with free range home laid eggs because my parents kept chickens and ducks. When I was 8 they had a brief foray into keeping bantam chickens. The cock took a particular disliking to me and only me. I would regularly be pursued around the garden by the tiny shit as it tried to bury it's spurs in the back of my legs and my brother just looked on in hysterics. It never let up until it had drawn blood.
My Dad put an end to it with a 2.2 rifle to a pinned down cock head. The dog had the wiry feathered cocking cock for dinner.
(Stan Lamb, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 14:37, 4 replies)

My mates a postman
Guess what animal attacked him and guess where he was bitten.

I laughed so much when I found out.
( Crap Little Monkey Deathstar, so good they built it twice, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 12:53, 137 replies)

This isn't on topic
and I will delete it if asked.

But, can we please stop the race for first post?
I just re-read the first few pages of this question and realised I'd missed some really good stories, because people had saved themselves a spot, only to post their story later.

So, please, I'm asking nicely, only post when you've got something to say, that way you'll get all the clicks that your very well written posts actually deserve.

*Edit* I guess it's my own fault really, if I wasn't so lazy I'd have read through them all again earlier. Meh.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 11:06, 18 replies)

Do Bee's count?
I remember one day oh so many moons ago when I'd arrived home hot and sweaty from the cycle trip home from work (I was on a health kick at the time but I've grown up since then).

On arrival home the gf at the time and two of the neighbours wives were all sitting outside my place having a bit of a chat as you do on a nice sunny.

Well being nacked I promptly parked my Lycra clad arse down on the front step whilst I caught my breath (cycling shorts are not pretty, unless you happen to be a cute young thing (read girl here folks)...........

Anyhoo, as I sat there listening to the wimmin jabbering away I had this uncomfortable "itching" feeling in my left but-ock.

A quick surreptitious scratch provides no relief, and if anything it's now starting to get a little nippy.

So I wiggle about trying to get another scratch in without getting caught when out staggers a rather flat Bee.

I'd just been stung in the arse........

At this point I stands up and quietly explains to the ladies present that I'll have to go inside as I have just been "stung on the bottom".....

QUE gales of laughter as I go in search of a mirror and a pair of tweezers........

The gf refused to help on account of the fact she couldn't see for the tears running down her face.....
(Dark Matter All The Wonders In The World & We Invent Boredom, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 15:08, 3 replies)

Baboon attack
I was doing a bit of utterly bourgeois gap year 'travelling' (we were all young once) around Africa with my then girlfriend. We were at Victoria Falls, on the Zambia side, and very nice it was too. There were a fair few baboons wandering about but we'd been told not to feed them, and not to corner them, and then all would be well.

So, me and the missus wander off to a little platform of rock that was slightly off the beaten track, but which jutted out into the abyss and had a breath-taking view. We were having a litte cheezy romantic moment, when suddenly a full-size male baboon clambers up the cliff in front of us, thereby cornering himself between us and the edge. He's not happy about this, so he stands up on his hind legs and roars, properly bellows, at us. When stood up he was taller than me (and I'm 6'4"). Needless to say we crapped ourselves and ran screaming back onto the main pathway. Of course, the baboon didn't deign to follow us, so as far as everyone else was concerned, we wandered off for a smooch and then came back screaming "BABBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON!!" and running like our lives depended on it..
(franktard, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:42, 7 replies)

Never beep your car horn at livestock when they are blocking the road…
...is a lesson my impatient Grandad learnt after a dozen frightened cows “opened fire” giving his blue fiesta a lovely brown paint job by all accounts!
(Ella Mentree, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:30, 2 replies)

When animals are potentially attacked by other animals.
Not a snappy title, but still.

I'm going to hell for this.

I have had a mouse in my apartment for the last 3 months. No amount of traps, humane or otherwise, have been able to deter the pesky little bugger.

As of 5.30am today, I no longer have a mouse in my apartment. There may, however, be a mouse in a cereal box on the street outside my apartment.

Given that I saw a raccoon outside my apartment a couple of days ago, I'm not holding out much hope for the mouse's survival...

Oh, and a cat did a sick on my knee on Friday. Does that count as "attacked"?
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:15, 2 replies)

Crazy flatmate and Damien the cat
Batshit McFatCunt to give her her full name came to live with us as she was known by a friend-of-a-friend who said she was awesome and would be a joy to live with…this was a lie. Batshit brought with her a possessed cat – a real unholy motherfucker – meaner than a mean thing with extra sharp claws that didn’t blink – it stared. It stared directly and fixedly at your soul. It was clear from the start that Batshit’s cat was going to kill us. We may have been suffering slightly from paranoia but the cat was just pure evil. It hissed, spat and clawed at anything that moved within ten feet of it. Now I blame Batshit for the behavior of the cat but he seemed to revel in his cuntiness.

With overlords now living with us we had to formulate a plan to get rid of them - Frog Brothers style. (Douse the fucker in garlic and holywater…was not something we tried). Well it was decided that Lance – a fat med student would sort out this problem. Lance was the only person who got up early enough.

For two weeks Lance got up and cleaned out Damien’s kitty litter tray and disposed of the evidence elsewhere. I forgot to mention Damien was a house cat - shame really as we lived near a busy road.

So Batshit starts to question us, did you clean out Damien’s kitty tray? Nope, not us. Batshit started to worry – we all searched the house for kitty poop but found nothing. Batshit starts to worry that Damien is ill and plans trip to the vets. Other than needing an exorcism Damien gets a clean bill of health, and I’ll bet he behaved beautifully for the vet.

Two weeks pass and Damien hasn’t done a single shit – until one Saturday morning – the house is full of a gut wrenching stench and there in the kitchen in the middle of Damiens kitty litter tray is the biggest stinkiest shit – almost curling over the sides. Lance had done a fine jobby indeed. Knowing he’s been fixed up Damien has a rather perplexed look on his face. Batshit is woken up and told that the kitty tray needs cleaning…I’m not sure she ever questioned the enormous turd laid by Damien as he was much better after that.
(i anglepoise, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 11:44, 2 replies)

Meat Eating Cat
When I moved to Ireland and set up house, I felt that I really needed a cat to make my new home complete.

So, being the responsible sort, I got a cat from a rescue place. Bean is a mature cat, with an iron will, and like other cats, she took a while to settle in.

After a couple of months, well pas the hide behind the TV stage, she was sleeping in the bed, sitting on the table, the normal stuff that cats do.

One Saturday morning, I was sleeping with my fingers laced on my chest I wake up with Bean walking over me and starts licking one of my fingers. Cute, I think. Then she starts gently nibbling my finger tip, still cute but a bit odd.

Then she lines up her mouth to take a chunk out of my finger, I pull away quickly enough to avoid blood loss.

She does this a few times to both me and my partner.

It's not until a couple of weeks later that I put the pieces of the puzzle together. The lady that she lived with last was rather old and died rather suddenly, and I'm guessing that she was left in the house with her for a couple of days. So it looks as if she was just checking to see if we were asleep or dead.
(lympicita_ie, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 11:02, 2 replies)

Terrier of Terror
You have to understand that I'm big. No, that's not quite right -- I'm more huge than big. Over 300 lbs., and over 6'3" tall. I tend to intimidate people without trying, and when I try, well...

Anyway, I'm visiting some friends, and they ask me to run around the corner to get something from the store. Noticing that the corner lot is an otherwise-empty nice green lawn, I cut across.

Cue the titular terrier, racing towards me, dragging it's chain, growling and barking at full voice. I nearly wet my pants, high-stepping away, squealing like a sissy!

Reaching the safety of the sidewalk, I look back, making sure that the chain stopped the terror. It had. All 6-inches of the wee little beastie. I looked around to see if I'd been seen. Oh yes, my friends were on the lawn laughing. The neighbors were laughing. I'm surprised there wasn't a local news van filming.

Yes, I ran to safety, scared to death of a tiny puppy that I outweighed by a factor of 60. Damned effective watch dogs, those little yappy ones.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Mon 28 Apr 2008, 7:39, 1 reply)

KITTEN!
My kitten is cute little thing. Sweet, fluffy, playful, etc.

But if you ever pick her up to put her in her cat box to go to the vet, she becomes somewhat different. Evil, some might say.

She once went into such a fit that she left a rather deep 4 inch scratch all the way down my wrist. Which scarred.

Now every time I go out wearing shortsleeves I always catch the new person I'm talking to making a quick glance towards my wrist, followed swiftly by a "ohmygod he's tried to kill himself" face.

Once - in that precise situation - I came out straight away with: "tell you what, buy me another drink or I'll cut the other one". I've never seen such a look of horror before or since.
(meat katie rocked the other nite and also on, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 22:05, 3 replies)

Poor little joey...
I'm racing along a dirt track in a fairly remote area in Far North Queensland. I'm responding to a trail bike rider with multiple fractures and a kangaroo steps out in front of the ambulance.
Cue one suddenly very dead roo, so I drag him, or possibly her, to the side of the road and continue on to the patient. I'm telling this story later to a woman who is a carer for injured wildlife.
She asks me if I checked the pouch to see if there was an alive joey.
That never occurred to me then or before and I suffered a very restless night wondering if I had condemned a baby roo to a lonely death.

Then again, his mum did crack my headlight cover, the thoughtless bitch.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 15:02, 1 reply)

pot-head moo cows of fear
When i was at school i smoked a lot of weed, usually at lunchtimes. This was in Beverley (E. Yorkshire) and it was only two minutes walk to Westwood, which had many fine woody hiding places to sit in and have a joint. It was a lovely place if you could avoid the cow shit.

One time i went for a joint with a mate, as per usual, in this nice little dip so we could not be seen and avoid the wind at the same time.

And lo! Joints wee smoked and all was well. Until we decided to go back to school and saw that this dip was entirely surrounded by cows. Completely. It was cows all around us, shoulder to shoulder. It seems like the entire herd had been attracted to the smell and decided to come and see what it was, or something.

We waited to see if they'd go away, but instead they all started edging closer to us bit by bit.

Although they never actually attacked us, we were fucking shitting ourselves as it looked like they were about to.

We actually had to physically push a cow out of the way to get out, before screaming like sissy girls and running away as fast as we could.
(MrTrent cannot think of a clever sig., Sun 27 Apr 2008, 14:37, 1 reply)

Animals are a good judge of character
Ex-Mr Monkey is twunt on a major scale. It takes most people a few meeting to see that, animals on the other hand can spot it right away (yeah for animals).

One occasion we went for a walk, bumped into a mate walking her dog. Dog makes a fuss of me, makes a fuss of Monkey jrs, goes up to ex as if to make a fuss of him but instead bites him. Not a major attack but I love that Dog!! (He is still the only person that Dog has ever biten)

Length - only seconds but he moaned about his hand hurting for ages.
(icklemonkey, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 11:10, 1 reply)

Attacked by Tom Selleck's Moustache
In Goa. I was staying in a mucky llittle room just off the beach as it was nearest to the bar as I could get.
Woke up from my daily Siesta and proceeded to get dressed. Picked my Jeans up off the floor, put them on and set off. A few seconds later, walking down towards the beach I noticed my right leg tingling just below the knee.
'Oh no, I've got ants in me pants' I thought. Better go back home and check it out.
Back in the room I took off the jeans and turned them inside out to be greeted by the biggest blackest furriest caterpillar i've ever seen. About the size of Tom Selleck's moustache, but with more fur.
I screamed like a girl, threw the jeans on the floor and shook for a bit as I watched the beast wriggle about. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.
A minute or two later, composing myself back into a state of manliness, I smashed it to bits with a flip-flop, put some shorts on, went out and got drunk.
I was assured it wasn't dangerous but my leg tingled for about a month after.
(Tirtingsquirtle, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 10:06, Reply)

Crikey! Bring on the Aussie egos!
Yep, every day of our sun-drenched antipodean lives we are potentially lethally assailed by any number of God's nastiest experts in self-preservation, which cearly makes us the toughest, ballsiest, most devil-may-care-because-death-has ceased-to-frighten-me since (insert early childhood near-death due to wildlife anecdote here) people on the planet. Especially if the Aussie b3tards are to be believed.

It is true, however, that I have been bitten by a redback spider, via the dunny (toilet) seat, on the penis, and am still alive. Oh my raving lordylocks did that hurt, though. The doctor pointed out helpfully that luckily for I a non-tumescent member is a "relatively low blood-flow area", which quite possibly contributed to my ongoingness thereafter.

*ASIDE* occurring as this did in a large mining town that to this day is the only place in Australia with a decriminalised locality of prostitution, I forgave this medico for initially suggesting that the large, throbbing, nigh-on freshly suppurating sore halfway down my quivering shaft "looks like a syphilis chancre to me, son..."

I have more, we all do. Takers?
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 13:35, 7 replies)

Those damn roos!
During a trip to a place called Philip Island on the south coast of Victoria, Australia, myself and my friend, Nicole ventured into a nature park to check out some of the creatures indigenous to Australia (Kookaburras, Kangaroos, bats, Echidnas, Wombats, etc).

After wandering around feeding some of the animals, we spotted an open reserve with a few joeys hopping around and thought it would be great to go in and feed some while taking a few snaps close up.

After spending about half an hour wandering round, feeding some of the young 'uns, we found ourselves quite deep into the reserve where the roos seemed to be getting quite large.

Several larger roos (5ft+) decided to venture a bit closer and after hearing some of the stories about how they'll tear you open with one swipe of their claws, we decided to be a bit more wary.

After I'd just finished feeding a joey a handful of feed, I turned around and spotted one of the 5ft roos right behind a crouching Nicole. As I watched, I saw the ninja-roo start leaning back on it's tail, ready to give her a kick. Now I don't know if any of you have actually seen a roo rear back, it's quite a sight to behold. Those tails are pretty damn thick and to see it effortlessly rear back onto it's tail gave me a pretty good idea as to how much power it probably had.

I called out to Nicole and much to her credit, she turned round and offered a handful of feed to her would-be attacker in order to placate him. I joined her and fed it some more. This had the desired effect and after gobbling down a couple of handfuls of feed, the roo decided to retire to a safer distance.

We continued feeding some of the joeys and Nicole had wandered a little further away from me to feed a couple that hadn't had any from us. After a few minutes, Nicole called over to me as I stood up. As I was turning to face her, I felt an almighty whack in my right thigh. Yes, the ninja roo had returned and had got the serious hump that I was feeding some of the young ones. A scene of me taking on the roo in a boxing match and getting my ass well and truly kicked flashed through my mind.

Not wanting to end the day in hospital or worse still, having my entrails spilled over the ground for the rest of the roos to feed on during the night, I backed off, whilst delving into my bag of feed in case it decided to come and have another go.

I tossed the feed in it's direction to distract it while Nicole and I joined forces and made our way through the plethora of roo droppings back to the entrance. Only when I was safely out of harms way did I then shake my fist at it, taunting it till it hopped off into the bush.

Length - its tail was a good 5 ft long!
(Swarve, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 9:43, 1 reply)

!!!!!
What appropriate timing. As of right now, I am shaking, for fear of walking home. I usually relish the 5:00 hour, especially on a friday. Not today. Noooooo.

Yesterday, as I approached my usual corner during my car-less commute, "the home stretch" of my journey, a black bird (mockingbird, I think) emerged from a nearby bush and began to attack!!!! Him and his mate pulled my hair and dove at my face and pecked at my head with their beaks! I was screaming and running but they continued their assault. This was on a busy street. There were plenty of passers-by. But did anyone help me? Noooooo. It's based in psychology -- the more people that are around, the less likely it is that one of them will aid you. It's called "deference of responsibility" and it's fucking annoying.

Now I know there are a lot of people on this board, but hopefully someone will help me anyway. I have a little less than two hours before I began my daily walk, my death march, and what should I do??? I don't want to hurt the birdies. They are probably only protecting a nest. But I am going to look terrible with my eyes pecked out of my skull. And the sound of birds, once a pleasant and tranquil experience, has set my teeth on edge lately. I'm terrified! *Sobs*

Click I like this and I'll set up a camera at the intersection in question to capture these birds attacking someone else.
(BrainSurgerysFun, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 23:16, 1 reply)

Cows are evil.
Oh yeah. I never believed it until it happened to me..

They happily shared the field with m'girlie and I as we gave our new kite its maiden outing.. But very gradually, over a couple of hours, they came round in a pincer movement to be behind us - And just as we put the kite away, they charged! It was surreal.
Fortunately (and dont ask why) I had a smoke stick grenade thing which i set off and waved about as we ran away, it actually bought us a few 'confusion seconds'.. I made sure m'girlie was ahead of me (so i'd die first if it came to it - as there is much shame in coming home alive without your partner :o ) and we only just made it over the gate before they got to us, snorting, bucking and pissy.

I have no doubt in my mind that if they'd caught us, we'd have been trampled to death and tossed like ragdolls by the bastards.

Now I think they should all die.
(Phlash, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 14:28, 2 replies)

We had a budgie
named Georgie. He was the first pet my sister and I were allowed and we thought he was great. Sadly for Georgie, once my brother was born the attention he had got waned so he got cantankerous and vicious in the space of a few months. We think it was jealousy as he would go especially mental if my brother went anywhere near him, making that very odd noise pee-ed off budgies emit.

Not only was he now the grumpiest pet bird ever but he was obviously a genetic freak. He lived well beyond the average life span of his breed and as his age increased so did his bad temper.

He finally carked it when we were away on holiday and my nan was looking after him for the week. She had a look at him one morning and thought he "looked a bit peaky" so decided to perk him up with a spoon-full of brandy. As she reached into the cage to grab him, Georgie had one final hissy fit and sank his beak into her finger with which he promptly died. Cue my Nan, in great pain, leaping around her kitchen trying to shake a dead bird off her finger.

Georgie - he died as he lived, hating the human race.
(Innogen, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:50, Reply)

Dog rapes boy.
This one brings last weeks QOTW and this weeks QOTW together when the family pet mounts this kid whilst he's playing on his game.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=0SgRGSk_wlc

(Promise this is not a rick roll)
(Miggyman, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:39, Reply)

Stupid Bird
A few years ago I was having a couple of problems with my TV reception and thought i could save a few quid by re- pointing the ariel myself.

The job itself was pretty easy until I was attacked by a bird. I was pretty used to this as this bird in particular had made a habit of going for me and a couple of my mates over the past few years. To cut a long story short he took it too far and I ended up falling to my death.

Bloody Emu


(The jokes on him though- hes now stuck with my less talented relative on some crappy kids show)

Bindun? (Gets coat anyway)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:34, 5 replies)

scratching that itch
He came into my room last night. I lay on the bed, waiting in the silence. I felt him gently touch my skin as he explored my body, licking sucking, swallowing - I groaned and moved as I felt him take his fill - and then, just as he was satisfied, he left. I was hurt, but what could I do? No matter how tightly you close the window there's always one goddamn mosquito that gets through. I reached for the Anthisan.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 12:54, 44 replies)

Woof
Another story, this time concerning my wonderful (and now sadly deceased from old age) dog, Mappy. She was a rescue dog, having been born on a narrowboat, the owner was intending to drown 5/7 of the litter because he simply didn't have the room for them on the boat. We got her at 6 weeks old, and found she had a lifelong love of scrambled eggs and weak tea, having been given them from time to time as a pup. She was lovely, affectionate and playful... but as thick as two short planks.

Or so we thought. Sometimes she displayed an animal cunning that was genius. Taking her for a walk along the riverside, she was old enough and well trained enough that she didn't need a leash unless near the road. She loved it, all the scents and other dogs we met occasionally on the walk. Sometimes she'd even jump in the river and go for a swim.

Now, this river was popular with fishermen. You couldn't catch anything big, just little guppy like runts, but it was a relaxing way to spend an afternoon. And we walked past several fishermen just chilling out.

One of them had just caught something. He reeled it in, a little tiddler as always, and was lowering it into his net (the ones you attach to the bank but in the river so you can count your catch and the end of the day). She padded up behind him, about a metre away.

And suddenly started barking. Loudly. The poor bloke jumped... toppled... and fell into the river, knocking his net away from the bank at the same time. It wasn't the bloke who owned the narrowboat... which is a shame, the irony factor would be off the scale.

My mother believes that she saw a squirrel or something, but I secretly think that she wanted to give something back to the river that she came from.

Good dog. Good dog.
(calamarain just invented dehydrated water, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:24, Reply)

Wolf! Sort of.
Back in the days, with a freshly minted licence and access to Mumsie's Maestro, I was the king of the road. Well, second cousin of a Duke of the Road. Maybe.

Being as this was before the days of t'internet, DVDs, Playstations or even decent 'pooter games, myself and random mates would trundle off into the remote wee roads in the countryside. Often at ludicrous speeds, as we were 18 and therefore immortal.

Belting down this little one-track road, at night, suddenly a flash of grey fur as the alleged wolf lept into our path.

In stereo "SHIIIIT".

Screech of brakes, onto grass, skid, ROCK!, overcorrect, DITCH!, Crunch.

12 foot deep ditch.Whoops.

We clambered out somewhat woozily, and I staggered off down the road to the nearest house to beg the use of a phone and get a bollocking from the householder for driving too fast. My nervous "it was a wolf" didn't go down too well.

My other mate, who I had begged to bring his parental Volvo to pull me out, turns up in his fucking Lada.

Eventually a very friendly local farmer hoicks us out with a tractor.

Off we go, my rescuers and I in sedate convoy, and then we see.....my nemesis.

The wolf.







Okay, it was a badger.

Happily trotting along the road, basking in his victory over man and machine.

"Right you bastard" sez I. Before I could even change gear and launch into badger-squashing-vengeance, VOOM he's off like a racehorse with a chilli enema.

Turbo-charged badger cunningly disguised as a wolf: 1

Me: 0

Sigh.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:41, 3 replies)

When seals attack
My wee sister spent a summer or two working in the Northern Ireland Aquarium (essentially a large fish tank in a field thirty miles from Belfast). The Aquarium's big draw is a seal sanctuary where all the cute ickle babby orphan seals are raised. The mascot of the place is, therefore, Neil the Seal.

To the delight of pretty much no one, each summer a member of staff had to dress up as Neil the Seal and walk around talking to the kiddies. This involved donning a giant brown rubber suit and big foam seal head, and required another member of staff to steer poor Neil through the screaming school children. I don't know who the hell thought it would be a good idea to assign this duty to my wee sister, but they must have had a death wish.

My wee sister, who has the deserved reputation of scathing grumpiest bitchqueen from hell, was duly bundled into the suit and dispatched to be upbeat and merry among the kiddies.

No.

When her boss returned half an hour later she was standing in the middle of the playground, foam seal head tucked firmly under one arm, chain-smoking like a French philosopher, glaring at the little shits who were trying to stand on her rapidly-shortening rubber tail.

"Er, are you alright?", ventured her boss, at which she took the cigarette out of her mouth for long enough to formulate some very salty swear words which were fortunately drowned out by delivery truck reversing nearby.

Thing about it is, seals are aggressive creatures. I think she was spot on in her portrayal.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:35, Reply)

i was stung by a bee once....
Five pounds for a jar of honey......


not mine dont know who to credit it to but i had to post it anyway :D
(Patfish, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 3:35, 2 replies)

Wild Turkeys
are indeed wild
and apparently, with the provocation of walking up to them
will position themselves completely flat, neck fully stretched out, and run towards you like fucking torpedoes
fucking wild turkey torpedoes
the horror
( Arsonade is saving up for a new box of hummus, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 23:59, Reply)

when humans attack back
geography field trip to North Wales in the heady days of 2007, after half a day of standing by a river making up rock sizes in the upper course of the river we went back to the minibus to go to the middle course and make up more rock sizes. Sensing a chance to tire out his labrador Mr.G has brought his dog along for the day.
now to the actual attack, half the group were now at the minibus with Mr.G and Mr.C waiting for the others to arrive. dog trots off, no-one really notices until it cries out in pain after being attacked by a rottweiler, or some such type of aggresive, ugly dog. Naturall Mr.G takes exception to this and aims to separate the two. Did i mention Mr.G ('Beefy Steve') is a late 40s former prop for Cambridge? sort of bloke who would drink a pint of vodka for a laugh. Anyway I digress, Mr.G proceeds to use size 9 steel capped walking boots on this dark mass which is taking chunks out of his dog and separates the two.
Then realises he is conveniently holding a large metal chain, so starts twatting the dog one, rightly so. rottweiler trots off tail between legs towards car park and owners.
by this stage the entire group is back and about to get on the minibus when a car pulls up. bloke inside looks at labrador, bleeding and is obviously thinking, "ah labrador owner, pushover" gets out of his car and asks who's dog it is. (in a comical Welsh accent, which sounded like a bad impression, but unfortunately wasn't. he is also about 4'3")
"thats mine" intones Mr.G, " i assume the bugger that did that damage is in your car"
there followed some dialogue along the lines of:
WelshTwat: you've injured my bloody dog
Mr.G: that fucker bit my dog, if another dog bites my dog i'll stop the bastard
WT:that's a bloody pedigree dog, if its injur...
MG:that sort of dog should have a fucking muzzle on in public, have you not listened to the news (this was in the weeks when there were a spate of kids being mauled by rottweilers)
WT: listen to me boyo, never hit a dog! i'm going to the police about you, what are your contact details
at this point the welshman looks up and realises he can find all about MrG's employment from the side of the minibus, then looks beside it to see 13 or so 17 year olds, of which 4 are holding ranging poles, 3 are trying to stop the bleeding on the labrador, 3 are cracking their knuckle trying to look intimidating and the rest are laughing at his accent. he took down the school's number and Mr.G's name and fled the scene

unsuprisingly MrG never heard form the police, due to the fact the welshman didn't have a leg to stand on, lab recovered, all was well

length? the metal chain must have been about 3 feet, the ranging poles 2metres...
(FairlieSittingbull, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 23:43, Reply)

Mosquitoes!!!!
Here in Manchester it's not too bad, but in Tenerife... Oh, how I hate them! It's not only that they suck your blood; it's not that they have to leave the poison inside your skin; it's that the stupid bloody thingies MUST wake you up in the middle of the night!!!! Why? WHY???

But after years of suffering I've found the solution. And it has nothing to do with insecticides (too hot to sleep with the window closed, so they're a waste). The trick is to cover yourself with the sheet almost completely, leaving only a bit of your cheek available for dinner. Put your hand, covered with the sheet, close to the uncovered cheek, and wait. It will come. Oh, I know it will come.

You hear it. It's getting closer, checking if it's safe. And you don't move and try to breathe normally, until it finally stops on your cheek. Now, this is the difficult part. You can't move or it will fly. You have to wait until you feel it starts sucking, and THEN!!!! HIT IT WITH YOUR HAND!!! NOW!!! DEAD!!! FOREVER!!! JAJAJAJAJA!!!!

Oh, how I hate them....
(Aberracion Life's getting very complicated, but a lot of fun., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:57, 4 replies)

Lounging cat
I came home from a heavy night out, stamped up the stairs drunk with my MP3 player on, suddenly I feel sharp pains and distant screeching...I'd stepped on my poor cat's stomach who was minding her own business. She pretty much flew up my leg then down the stairs in a feline rage.

That woke the whole house up, but I'm just glad I didn't break my neck or the cat's for that matter.
(trippeh, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:46, Reply)

Cock
A very small me playing in the garden on a summers day. We used to have a very agressive cock *giggle*. Whenever I went outide it would chase me, and pounce. It was only succesful once, digging it's sharp little claws into my leg. Ouch.

Got my own back though, kicked it up the arse. Went flying.
(Ellytots Last thought of chocolate on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:31, 1 reply)

Not my tale exactly...
There are two staffies that are owned by what can only be described as the biggest spastic ever. The kind of guy who carries two big chains around with him, without the dogs being attached to the ends. Due to the way that these little shits come into my front garden, piss and shit everywhere, and on one memorable occasion ran into my house and started attacking my dog, my dog is not fond of them.
Trouble is, every time these dogs screw up, bloke just gets really appologetic, and so it's hard to be too angry at him. Until last week.

Taking my dog out for her late night walk, two sandy blurs come running up the street, barking and snarling. Me and my boyfriend have had enough by this point, and so we kick the dogs as hard as possible, repeatedly as they keep coming back for more, until my other half picked each one up by its back leg and handed them back to moron. We haven't seen him since.

Appologies for lack of point, but the fun of kicking a nasty dog as hard as you can can never be underestimated.
( Madam Marlboro wonders if you've found her yet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:27, Reply)

Meet my mortal enemies.
I grew up in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate NY, in a very heavily wooded area. Aside from having an exceptionally long winter, the mountains are a wonderful place to be. They only have one real flaw.

Blackflies and deerflies.

The blackflies usually start appearing in late May and stay into June before fading out and being replaced by the deer flies, who stay around until August.

Blackflies will swarm around you, and are especially fond of attacking your eyes. They also love to crawl into your hair and bite your scalp, and are very fond of the area just behind your ear. You don't feel them biting at first- in fact, probably you won't be aware of it until they've gone. But instead of poking you with a tube like a mosquito, they chew a small wound in you with their mandibles and drink from the surface, so you know you've been bitten when you rub and itch and your fingers come away bloody.

Deer flies are a bit larger, and fast. Really fast. They circle you two or three times per second until they spot a landing place, and then they bite with a vicious stinging itch. They too love to crawl through your hair to your scalp. And worst of all, they'll chase you- I have tried outrunning them on a bicycle, and the little fuckers followed me along the road for a good quarter of a mile. I have ducked into a building and emerged from another door, and found them waiting on the side of the building around the door I entered.

For reasons unknown, they're especially drawn to me. I got into the habit at an early age of washing with unscented soaps (Ivory is the best) and wearing unscented deodorant, as they're attracted to perfumes, but they still prefer me over other people.

I have been known to go after them with a can of WD-40 and a lighter. I also enjoy catching deer flies and flinging them onto the surface of a lake and watching the fish get them. Once I even stuffed about half a dozen into the barrel of a .22 rifle and fired them into a tree.

I have no idea why God saw fit to create them, but one day I'm going to demand an answer from Him, and might just bring along a few of the fuckers to unleash on His ass...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:09, 4 replies)

Ooh! Ooh! Me sir! Me! Me! Me! *raises hand*
The title has absolutely nowt to do with the content. I was just excited…

I may have posted a reference to this before. However I can’t be arsed to trawl through my postings to find it, so this is a remake (or ‘re-imagining, if you prefer).

My ex mother in law was a soft touch for cats. Especially spakker cats with no teeth, or nasty biological diseases that meant their shit was permanently of the liquid variety. Rescue cats all. One day, a friend of hers that worked for the RSPCA rang and asked her if she would be interested in another cat, knowing that one had just died of old age. Off we all trooped to have a look, and sure enough, there was this lovely lickle puss, white and tortoise-shell. Rather cute and lovely looking, if a little on the tubby side, and blind in one eye (ironically, because of a cataract). And so, she came home with us, and was christened Dillon (yes, that’s how she spelled it).

Turned out, after a check up at the vets, that Dillon was pregnant, hence her tubbiness, but that’s not really relevant.

Now at this point, I wasn’t a cat person. I didn’t mind them, but had never really had a lot of experience of them. Dillon changed all that. She sort of adopted me one morning when I was spread out on the floor doing a spot-the-ball competition in the local rag, which at that point in time was still a broadsheet (I bloody HATE broadsheet format newspapers. Not the content, just the format. Grrrrr). Dillon decided that was her cue to climb on my back and fall asleep, so I was stuck there. After that, I became her favourite human – anytime I was in the house, she’d stop what she was doing and literally launch herself at me. Even if she was outside and up a tree, she could somehow sense my presence and would dash in from the garden and jump into my arms. I’d have to carry her round like a baby, while she nuzzled and nibbled my earlobe.

The one thing she didn’t like was loud noise. Especially the vacuum cleaner… Which my mother in law forgot about one time, and switched on while Dillon was in full cuddle mode with me. As the vacuum cleaner sprang noisily into life, Dillon forgot all about her lovely cuddle and made a break for freedom. Which, unfortunately for me, involved wriggling from my grasp like a thing demented and running for the safety of under the bed, leaving me with a severely lacerated right arm which proceeded to pump blood all over the carpet.

It took a hell of a lot of pressure and TCP to stem the flow. I’ve still got the scars to show for it, one of which perfectly follows the track of a large and important looking vein.

I miss Dillon sometimes.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:35, Reply)

One time, at band camp...
www.grimdesign.livejournal.com/111773.html

Says it all really... and I've never felt quite so dirty.
( SubCulture Hero ... ... He... .... Comes ... ...., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:33, 4 replies)

Picture the scene
You're eight years old, out on the moors as part of a school trip, you've walked for miles, dodging the shit, admiring the scenery and wondering when you'll be able to sit down and get a bite to eat. Eventually, that wondrous moment arrives, as you sit down and open the lunch that your mother has lovingly made for you. And as you sit back, enjoying your sandwich, lunchbox placed to one side, as no-one would seriously think of trying to nick off with your food on the Derbyshire moors, right? Wrong. As I was eating my sandwich, unbeknownst to me I was being cased up by a sheep. A rather devious sheep, and I suspect it may have been trained in karate. This ovine ninja crept up on me, and went in my lunchbox, and stole my banana. MY banana!
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:33, Reply)

A sneaky attack
My ex-Mrs had returned from some sort of emergency trip abroad to see her mother (and also enjoy a brief fling, the cheating cow) for a month, and The Cat - 'her' cat - was a bit stand-offish with her.

But after a few hours we settled down for an evening in front of the TV, The Cat climbed up onto her generous lap, got himself comfy, scrunched up his eyes and started purring.

"See, he remembers me," she said, before leaping up with a scream and flinging The Cat across the room.

He'd emptied his bladder over her, and she was drenched. I like to think he'd figured out that she was a bad girl*, months before I twigged.

*this is obviously utter tosh
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:17, Reply)

Since the death of Rocky, my prize fighting whelk (see page 1)
I am assembling a crack team of fighting animals.

I am therefore seeking:
- a hard cock
- a killer pussy
- big puppies
- a great ass

*ducks*
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:16, 10 replies)

fighting animals
I like a hard cock.

Etc.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:11, 7 replies)

I can see this question quickly becoming an animal wrongess archive...
So here's mine, and I still remember it as if it was only yesterday.

I used to live with my dad and step mother a few years back, my relationship with my step mother wasn't as strong as it could have been and my welcome was becoming quite thin. So I was trying to lie low, do as I was told, not upset anyone by expressing any true feelings and all that (will come clear later) Anyway... My steph mother loves dogs, not just any old dogs, massive smelly dogs, anything but small clean cute things.

One of the dogs would turn into a psychopath the second it saw anything small and fluffy, namely squirrels, rabbits, and his favourite, cats.

One night I'm sitting at my PC doing something vitally important, like creating some program to automatically download porn, when all of a sudden the dogs leg it outside all at once, so that's 5 big smelly balls of fluff, all heading for the same door, at the same time, barking like it's 1999. I just ignore them and carry on my duties but my step mother hurtles past shouting after one of the dogs, the one that loves teh fluffies.

The barking and shouting continues for a few minutes (bare in mind it's like 11pm), until she returns with the little psychopath by the collar saying that he had got a cat and that she thought it was still out there. Horrified by this I thought it best that I went out there to make sure the little bastard was okay.

I found it lying on it's back with it's intestines hanging out, not too nice, it looked scared shitless as you could imagine. I went back inside and said that I would take it down to the vets and hopefully they could poke it's suassages back in. My dad and step mother didn't think this would be a good idea as it could mean the end of the bitey dog that done the foul deed (that's Karma imo.). Being in the position I was, I couldn't argue with it and my dad said he would put it down, so I grabbed a knife and we both went outside.

My dad didn't think that the knife approach was a good idea, instead he decided to settle for the "stoving the animals head in with a huge metal pole" method, something which I wasn't paricuarly familiar with, and nor did I agree with. This was not good...

I stood back in horror as my dad persisted in attempting to put this cat out of it's "missery" for about 5 minutes until it finally died.

Quite frankly the nastiest thing I've ever watched and still feel bad about it now, but what could I do right?

...

Did I say I actually prefer cats?
( Firkinfedup last shat on your wife's tits at, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:08, 4 replies)

Cat Wank
Dunno if this counts as an attack... but the mental scars are deep.

My cat jumped on my bed the other week whilst I was having a wank, at the EXACT MOMENT of ejaculation.

I don't know who was the most shocked.

But I was the most ashamed.

Dktr S
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:06, 2 replies)

4th QOTW repeat.
GET A FUCKING GRIP.


Here people... have a read of what was said LAST TIME this identically titled QOTW was put up.

b3ta.com/questions/animalsattack/
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:06, 1 reply)

Well...
A duck shat on my head once.

No, that's all I've got. Sorry.
(Psycorp603, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:03, Reply)

In the Scouts...
...we were dumped just outside of Didcot, and told to hike back to our HQ, some twenty miles away on the other side of Reading.

Sod that for a laugh - my plan was to cut across the fields down to the main road and get a bus. Be Prepared, as they say, and I was prepared with bus fare.

Unfortunately, the sheep saw us first. Dreadful killer sheep, which latched onto the weakest member of our group, and hove in for the kill.

"Baa!" they said, obviously short for "Baa-stard!"

Greebo watched open-mouthed as the sheep gave that whole grass-eating business a rest and charged. Straight at him.

There was a distant scream, and he fled. Fled for his life.

He might have made it too, if it were not for the fact that the mud made his progress something like wading through treacle, while Cuddles seemingly flew across the sodden meadow.

Then, he went down, and Cuddles was upon him, giving him the bleating of his life.

Alas, the other sheep thought this was an excellent idea, and poor, dead Greebo was engulfed in a white, fluffy tide.

Sickened, we were. What a way to go.

Eventually, a mud-spattered and bruised wraith eventually appeared out of the setting sun, dragging the remains of his rucksack behind him, covered head to toe with sheeps' poop.

The bus driver took one look and told us to bugger off. Stupid killer sheep.

Full 12-inch version, you say? With pictures by B3TA's very own Down on the Farm? Why, HERE.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:01, Reply)

Run Forrest, run.....
Many years ago I was chased by a swarm of wasps through a park in Coventry because I was wearing coconut scented hair wax. I never wore it again and I made a vow to kill every wasp I came across for making me look like a twat.
( girlinthehole, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:56, 1 reply)

Rabbits...
when they are male and in heat (which is almost evryday)

they chase you round the garden with a little pink finger hanging out... they also Grunt... which was new to me...

hanging out you washing is impossible.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:55, 1 reply)

I grew up with turtles in the back yard
Lots of little turtles that my dad would bring home.

Every spring the turtles would mate. Or rather, the male turtles would chase the female turtles for mating but would actually mate with anything that stood still long enough.

There was one incident where Speedy went after a shovel. I think he may have even smoked a cig after he finished.


(the turtle attacked a shovel)
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Thu 1 May 2008, 17:17, 10 replies)

Guess which stories are most popular this week?
Simply add "/all" to the url ie:

www.b3ta.com/questions/animals/all

What's the betting the first two don't make it to the "Best of"?
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 1 May 2008, 16:02, 2 replies)

How about a new game then?
If the QotW topic is another utterly shite re-hash that people dislike - the person who gets first post on the new topic, picks a better one from the copious selection, and the topic is thenceforth hijacked.
Sound like a plan?
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Thu 1 May 2008, 16:00, 1 reply)

i remember in Rhodes
I was snorkling. but not swimming, sort of walking with my head dipped under the water.

I was walking amongst the rocks off the beach about 30ft out. It was lovley, loads of fish to be seen from little Fry way up to fish abuot 2ft in length. Then i came across this sea cucumber'ish thing, it was about 1 ft in length and covered in black spines - about 3 inches in length. Ill be honest and say i quite literally shat myself. I tried to run away. but i couldnt fast enough. even though it was effectively a deap sea armoured slug. I felt like i was beign chased.

I saw it as a scene from Jaws. I ran back wards falling over in doing so, crawling backwards out of the water...

Ive seen those programs on discovery - it could be deadily, or even at best give you a nasty prick (dont get excited children)

But then it hit me, i know its here, but no one else does...

for the rest of the afternoon i felt responsible for that area of the sea. I cringed everytime i saw one walk near it in their bare feet.

- still makes me cringe now...
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 14:30, Reply)

Chunky Mild Porn
Bert reminded me of something.

Drayton, lovely Drayton. Home of a rather nifty car show every May.

A couple of years ago, I turned up there to see my friend. They were all totally traumatised. Apparently they'd been to the zoo and had seen some of the monkeys indulging in somewhat exhibitionist behaviour. These particular ones were fisting each other...

Some, who had not seen this show, failed to believe it and went and had a look. All was well to begin with. A large male was sitting in the corner, apparently minding his own business when a very young monkey started bounding around the enclosure. Large monkey grabbed baby by the scruff of the neck, and plonked it on his lap where he just started rogering the poor thing.....

My mates were astonished - I believe some have pics but I really didn't need to see them!!!
(Beklet is inexplicably angry, Wed 30 Apr 2008, 11:57, 25 replies)

eye watering experience....still makes me cringe today...
A few years ago, whilst I was with the now ex wife, upon finishing a set of night shifts thought I'd get some early moring loving with the missis.
It was a warm sunny sunday morning and after after arousing her out of her vodka fuelled coma planned on giving her, what I thought would be a nice waking up. Little to my knowledge, we wern't alone that morning and were sharing our bedroom with one of our cats.
Pepsi was funny little creature,petite,jet black and had somewhat took a dislike to me and always seemed to give me that 'I'm going to get you' look after I had renamed her 'bumhole'..reasons being that she used to walk around with her tale in the air dispaying her pink feline tea towel holder to the world.
Me an the missis were getting a little frisky, duvet and pillows now on the floor....then..my moment of loving ended, my world crumbled, and I was left clutching my member.
The little furry bastard had took advantage, snook up onto the bed and proceeded to take a swipe at me...after my squeals had died down, I uncupped my now deflated excuse for a penis to reveal 3,inch long bloody scratches apon my end.
needless to say,cats are now banned from the bedroom and to this day, if I recall the sorry moment, I cringe and eewwwwww lmao
(hagga, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 23:54, 1 reply)

Pillow Present
"I once was rudely awakened
by my dog, a little pappillon, squatting on my chest and merrily pissing all over me and my bedsheets.

I am still unable to recreate the noise I made as the full horror of the situation became apparent."

I feel your pain but so much worse. Once when my dog was just a pup I let her come in and sleep on the bed since the missus was away for the weekend - nothing kinky, just a bit of campany you understand. I woke up to find her on my pillow, rolled over to say hi and felt something wet on my cheek.

She'd done a shit right there on the pillow and I got a faceful of it. There's nothing worse than having to change your bedclothes and wipe shit off your face at 4 in the morning. Didn't have the heart or energy to give her a bollocking, thankfully she never repeated the act.
(pumpkinbug, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 12:49, 1 reply)

the inconsistency of women
She thought it was really sexy when I said 'I want to fuck you like an animal', but then she freaked out when I'd barely even touched her leg, leg alone humped it.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 29 Apr 2008, 9:26, 1 reply)

Doing my bit to eradicate disease
As mentioned in a previous QOTW, I managed to fill a marmot burrow with liquid shit while traversing Western Mongolia.

In my defence, marmots spread bubonic plague and in fact, unbeknown to me and my travelling companions, there was actually a plague warning in effect at the time. I like to think of my diarrhoeaic mishap as a pre-emptive strike. It's kill or be killed when faced with these rodents of doom. It's believed they are the biggest killer of humans after the mosquito due to the diseases they have spread.

CHCB's contribution to public service: shit, but very effective.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 16:37, 47 replies)

Story from Ghana
Was quite happily sleeping in the power-cut room one night (this happened quite often) when the lights came back on at about 2am or something. Since the lightswtich hadn't been flicked back into the "off" position they had turned on. Annoyed at this, my eyes opened and I rolled to face the wall. And instead I faced this:
it was as big as my head ! So obviously I squealed like a little girl and it was skittering around everywhere. It didn't bite me, Ghana doesn't have spiders that can do that thank god, but I scared me witless.

I was also once bitten in the arse by a foxterrier who lept uo and clung on, not wanting to let go. It led to a classic TV moment where i was spinning around and him swirling horizontally around me hanging on for dear life. Bastard! Gave a good bruise.

My cat regularly attacks me. And my dog once bit me when I tried to take his bone (one of those massive sheep ones).

note: No, I did not remove one of the spider's legs. I dont know what happened to it. The semi-wild kitten they had there regularly caught such things and ate them though so maybe this one got away
( morrybyte made a subtle namechange at, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 14:33, 8 replies)

Cats/ spiders
My cat loves spiders... until their legs have all come off. He then gets bored, and leaves them to die like abandoned raisins.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 12:43, 7 replies)

Cycling helmet
Went for a wee when out camping. Just putting the old fellow away again when I got an almighty pain on the end. Assuming I'd zipped up my fly without due care and attention, I carefully unzipped it and had a look. What should I see but an enormous black beetle, chomping away on the end of my cock looking like a big cycling helmet.

'AAAARGH!', I say succinctly, brushing the fucker off. And then I searched for it for it the grass and couldn't even find it to stamp on.

Had to go straight off for a wank to make sure everything was still working properly.
( flatfrog Staring vacantly into space, Mon 28 Apr 2008, 9:45, 3 replies)

Attacked by my cats fleas
ok, I'm not entirely sure if this counts...
I bought my flat a couple of years ago - one of the plus points about it was that it has its' own entrance, so I could get a cat. I could never imagine a life without one, so when the opportunity came up to have one, I signed up with the Cats Protection League. The lovely lady on the end of the phone said I'd be ideally suited to an "old lady cat" - an old cat who was happy with a quiet life, not a kitten, basically. Oddly enough, my mate phoned up the next day, to ask if I could take his 10 year old mog. "Fate" I thought to myself. So I took on who is now known as The Furry Menace. She has utterly taken over my life with her grumps and her general food-centric life. "What does this have to do with being attacked?" I hear you ask...
Well, within a couple of months of her residing in my lovely new flat, I noticed that the anti-flea-shit I was using REALLY wasn't working. They were jumping off her & all over me. I took her to the vet, who prescribed something for her, and a cannister of something that should have dealt with the living room which was now crawling with the evil bouncy fuckers. I couldn't sit on the sofa without checking the base of it every half hour & picking off the fleas & squishing the bastards between my nails. It got to the stage where I had to take up the carpets & install laminate flooring. That didn't work. I had to call the Rentokill man round. Twice. Night-fucking-mare. We finally managed to call the flat a flea free zone about 3 months later. On the upside, I did manage to embarrass the Rentokill man when he asked me if there was an "activity in the bedroom"... Happy days lol
( Whodathunkit, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 20:36, 1 reply)

dobermans
When I was young, that's quite a long time ago now. I was at my Dad's house and he was looking after a friends dog (big black doberman - think that's how it's spelt :S). Anyway, as I walked across the kitchen to get a drink, it attached me for no reason. Thankfully, out of complete shock, I stayed still and didn't move. To this day I still have the scars where it got a hold of me. NEVER, believe a dog owner who says that there dogs don't bite. They can turn at any stage and become devils out to attack! Not really a tale of survival but it felt like it at the time!
( lafleur likes cheese, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 15:40, 3 replies)

pearoast
cocks can be cruel
My friend is a farmer. The least likely looking farmer you'll meet. he looks like a young Rolf Harris. and is pretty arty to boot.
He rang me up one evening to tell me that a rooster kept attacking him. it would wait til he would come into the field and then launch himself at his face. his father kept making up excuses to send him into the field just so he could laugh at the hi-jinx. now my friend has glasses, which i pointed out should form some kind of protection. i also pointed out that HE WAS A SIX FOOT FARMER FROM THE WEST OF IRELAND and this animal isn't something he should he should be scared of!He replied "But he's fast, and agile"...to which i suitably burst out laughing.
a few Days later he rang me and told me that he had tried to fight of the rooster with a brush, it didn't work so he just threw the brush at the rooster. i only wish i could have seen the goofiness but the mental images are priceless.

i mean really unless the rooster was like the one Peter has a on going battle with in Family Guy, this is not a creature a grown man should be scared of

eventually the rooster became too cocky (ahem) and started attacking his father. Who broke his neck.

Apparently although kind of tough, it was the most satisfying meal my friend ever had. The wuss.
(electrogirl no one thinks about the implications of a clown su, Sun 27 Apr 2008, 9:41, Reply)

Living near a canal...
Means lots of bridges, and lots of swans. One day a few weeks back, me and my flatmate were walking to the local Morrisons, which means crossing the canal behind our Halls via one of the many medieval bridges in Leicester.

About half way across we hear this thunderous beating of wings as about a dozen of the beaky bastards dive bomb the bridge. Think the scene in Pearl Harbor* when all the Zeros fly in, skimming over the top of the cliff.

We dive for cover behing the wall of the bridge as the swans swarm overhead but, with a certain sense of satisfaction, noticed one of them clipping his, erm, undercarriage on the edge of the bridge and majestically spazzing out and crashing into the water.

Now I've heard of swans being able to break limbs so imagine having one of the feckers hitting you in the head.

*I wince with pain typing this without a U.
(Dok Zombie Cash, gash, pie and mash., Sat 26 Apr 2008, 18:36, Reply)

Well not exactly attacked, but ...
.
Yesterday, after the nippers got out of school, we went to visit my friend. Double reason - it's her wee boy's third birthday (everybody say aaaaw) and my kids have been nagging to visit ever since her dog had puppies (even bigger aaaaaaw).

The puppies are absolutely gorgeous. Eight week old Golden Labrador puppies, every one right out of the Andrex ads. Now I'm as big a sucker as the girls when it comes to puppies, so there I was, on the floor with them, puppies climbing all over us. And chewing us. I'd forgotten just how sharp puppy teeth are ...

We got back quite late last night, and went to bed not long after. Another long week of getting up at stupid o'clock in the morning takes its toll.

Got up this morning, quick brekkie, jumped in the shower. I'd forgotten all about the little puppy nibbles on my hands (well, all over my hands and lower arms) until the shampoo hit them.

Oh ..... my ..... god.

It stung like buggery, and I may even have let slip with a less than ladylike word or ten. There wasn't any way to stop the pain until I was out of the shower (the soap stung just as badly) and I could assess the damage. Suffice to say that my hands look like they've been rubbed up and down the cheese grater a few times.

Every time I put my hands in water they nip like fury, and I keep forgetting to put the rubber gloves on (no tittering at the back). Even typing is stretching the cuts on my knuckles - but has it put me off puppies? Has it hell.

The kids spent just as much time with the pups as I did, but their hands are fine. Does that mean their skin is tougher than mine or just more (youthfully) resilient? Or did I taste better?
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Sat 26 Apr 2008, 16:20, 4 replies)

Tiger
I got clawed by a tiger once. Really. But it was just a tiny 12 week old cub at London zoo, so I am not entirely sure it counts. Bloody hurt though, they might be cute and fluffy but have evil claws even at that stage that go through thick trousers and skin too.

Humerously it then bit my friend and she had to have a tetanus shot in the arse as a result, so all was well ;-)
(Bob the Scutter, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 10:42, Reply)

Decapod crustaceans
Went down to the beach with a girlfriend once for a romantic evening. Sunset, low tide etc. Pure bliss, or so you'd think. Ended up with a nasty attack of crabs. 5% Permethrin sorted them, but fuck me that caused some discomfort.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 5:31, 1 reply)

a goose mugged my mate Heather for her bread
she was walking back from SPAR via the pond, and it kneecapped her with its beak. horrific stuff.
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 3:40, 1 reply)

well, they KIND of got it right.
used to live on a small market garden. heard some commotion one night outside, thought nothign of it, it was coming from the goatshed.

a little later a rather irate neighbour was beating down the door.. turned out he'd been woken by the sound of two men running up the road shouting, being chased by a VERY irate billygoat who was now munching on his beloved flowerbeds and refused to be dislodged.
turns out the cunts had jimmied the lock of the shed, hoping perhaps to steal the lawnmower, only to be faced with the twitchy, perpetually randy, stinkin horned demon known fondly as 'petroc' (in public) and 'FUCKER' in private.
well, they were right in one respect- he was our lawnmower.
bunch of cunts.
the funniest bit was that he managed to open our jury-rigged door again after we'd gone back to bed, and BASH A HOLE in the admittedly rather cheap shed the female goats were kept in, presumably after he tired of rogering them senseless, he took them to visit the nice new restauraunt up the road... hence us being woken AGAIN by the same neighbour, again apoplectic with rage and seein his once-proud flowerbeds filled with forlorn stumps. and rotund goats.
:D
he was a prize-winning cock anyway.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sat 26 Apr 2008, 1:58, Reply)

Cow Tipping
Back in '96 I was part of a youth exchange group connected to my local youth club. We had been over to Italy the year before (where my phobia of waxworks had reared it's head, leading to another QOTW tale) with French and Italian groups and it was their turn to visit the land of haggis and sporting mediocrity.
We stayed in a little hut in the middle of nowhere and had entertained our continental guests with orienteering, canoeing and other pastimes bored minds can concoct when they have fuck all else to do.
Noticing that this hut looked out onto a large field full of cows (with all due apologies to those with a predilection for goats, nothing for you here), myself and a few others from the tartan contingent decided to introduce some of our more adventurous guests to the joys of midnight cow tipping, or "cowping" as we called it.
Making sure our coast was clear, and all youth leaders were asleep, our merry band snuck out into the field. Our only light was the moon and the odd torch.
Upon spying a likely target, silhouetted in a bovine fashion by the imperious moon, I decided to demonstrate how this particular operation should be carried out. From 30 yards I launched myself at the beast with the intention of knocking it over as it slept. I barelled into it with all the force an 8.5 stone 16 year-old could muster and landed flat on my arse, the impact accompanied by a distinctly masculine sounding bellow.
Sure enough, I had ill-advisedly lunged at a bull.
Cue numerous respresentatives of young EU solidarity tanking across a field pursued by an enraged (and possibly engorged) bull.
Thankfully no-one was injured, although I did manage a pretty fair approximation of the Fosbury Flop, which I had never attempted before or since, over the barbed-wire fence around the field.

Length? Possibly around 8 acres. Dunno, drunk in charge of a keyboard this evening.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 21:45, Reply)

One from old photo collection.
Here is when two loving house cats got my younger brothers spiderman outfit muddled up with a real spider. They attacked, and they conquered!


(Miggyman, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 21:13, Reply)

My dad had a cat when he was a nipper
He called it 'Horse'

I don't know if it attacked anything of note, but it's a pretty good name for a cat.
( Weetobix, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 17:00, Reply)

Barnaby
Years ago I was living with an ex, she worked up the road at a convenience store, sometimes until quite late.

Now there were stray cats that used to float around the back of the block of shops, and unfortunately they bred and then there were heaps of kittens.
I felt pretty bad about it, as did she, so we would buy a few cans of food every now and then and put food out in the car park for them.

Turns out, and explains why they were so well fed, that the dude that owned the Chinese restaurant was leaving his scraps out for them (ha ha no jokes), as were other workers at the ex's shop.

These things were really timid, you couldn't get close to them at all, I always tried to coax them over, but they wouldn't have a bar of it.

Anyways, someone had alerted the council about the cat problem, and they started to set up traps.
We felt pretty bad about it, but for a week or so they managed to avoid getting themselves trapped.
We started to notice that the cat population was getting smaller and smaller, and that was when the ex decided she wanted a pet kitten.
A pet kitten to name Barnaby.

I wander down to her work just near closing time, around midnight, we lock up, and we go downstairs to see if any kittens are around, and we notice that there are a few trapped in one of the traps.

The ex decides on which one she wants and proceeds to open the trap.
At this stage I am starting to think this is a bad idea as the kittens were starting to panic.
She gets the trap open, grabs Barnaby, he goes stiff.

Then he shrieked. I swear to God he sounded like he was being slaughtered. I have only ever heard cats in cat fights scream this loud, but this was much worse than that.
It was so loud that the neighbours actually came out to see what we were doing.

At the same time Barnaby manages to twist his body 180 degrees and locks his claws into the ex. He spins one more time, screaming at the top of his lungs and manages to lock his teeth into her forearm.

By this stage I am absolutely pissing myself laughing, getting a bit worried about the noise that's being made. Somehow the ex managed to peel a flailing Barnaby off her arms and he shot through.

As we walked home we tried to see how much damage he did, but we couldn't see the wounds due to the fact her arm was covered in blood.
Absolutely shredded, and bruised really crazy over the next week.

I've seriously never seen nor heard anything like it.

Barnaby, where ever you are son, my hat goes off to you, you're quite possibly the most evil son of a bitch I have ever come across.

And you were a 10 week old kitten.
(sinewriter, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 13:23, Reply)

Back in the olden days.
Like 9 years ago now when i was just entering the world of work. I used to live like 1 minute away from the bus stop. But amusingly id still end up running late for the bus.

Something happened one day, that made sure I would never ever be late again.

As I was running up for the bus, suddenly a huge dog bounded out of a garden and charged straight for me. An evil Mammoth thing it was, barking away. I looked at it and saw pure evil in its eyes. This dog was out to kill. It scared the hell out of me! So much that I'd lost attention on where I was running, and went straight head first over a bush splash into someones filled paddling pool! The dog wandered back off no doubt laughing its head off as I lay there soaking wet and cold.

OK OK. It wasnt a huge dog, it was a yorkshire terrior. And yes, it was a baby one.
(Miggyman, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 12:26, Reply)

Does anyone know
the name of the book in which all the birds start attacking humans?

I've heard about it but never read it.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 11:45, 20 replies)

On how my cat would thicken the air
As a young Gunter my family owned numerous cats. He to which this tale relates was a very particular cat, perhaps the most unique of all felines to have stumbled about this planet.

Despite our house already being home to a brace of moggies, my brothers and I persuaded my mum that two cats were too few, and we duly hot-footed to the local rescue centre to acquire a new addition to the MunterHunter family.

Upon our arrival we chanced upon some new residents. This pair of brothers had already suffered the most horrific of lives, despite being only weeks old: they had been bundled into a sack along with the remainder of their litter, slung callously out the door and left for the dustbin men to transport them to the local landfill.

Fortune, however, smiled upon young Charlie and Gizmo (as they came to be known), when a kindly old refuse disposal officer, alerted to their plight by the unlikely movement and noise emanating from their makeshift grave, disposed of them at said rescue centre and gave them the chance of a long and happy life.

Gizmo had suffered horribly from his inglorious beginnings and was severely disabled, blind and about as sharp as a sphere. Charlie on the other hand was almost a perfect example of the feline hunter, likening them to meowing versions of Arnie & Danny DeVito in Twins.

As such, Gizmo was unable to attack like a conventional cat and his nature suggested he had no intention of harming anything; appearing as he did to be the single most loving creature ever to have lived. He did, however, unleash surprise attacks that could have been employed by riot police to bring a mob of the most vicious football thugs to a standstill... you see, not only was Gizmo disabled on the outside, but his spasticated guts would produce such air-thickening bouts of flatulence that even the strongest tear gas would be like fresh air in contrast.

He didn't live long, but his 5 or so years on the planet brought joy to many people, and he always seemed happy. Although, to this day I'm convinced that those beautiful blind eyes hid a conniving and deviant mind, which on occasion would remember the cruelty he suffered as a kitten and he would reek revenge whenever he could.

Length? Sometimes they would linger for hours...
( Moey, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:34, 1 reply)

"A swan can break a man's arm, you know."
How many times have you heard people give you this interesting 'fact'? Lots I expect. Yet how many b3tans have or know anyone who has had their arm broken by a swan? I've never heard of it happening. So either society is one big fat liar or I've been sheltered from reports of canal-Nazi attacks my whole life.
(henry's cat is yellow on, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 10:19, 11 replies)

When I lived at home with my parents...
...We had a black cat called shadow (named, strangely enough, after the gladiator because the cat was good at duel, we were innocent enough kids not to notice the racist cat-naming)
Anyway, Shadow was good at collecting things, he would bring us other cats collars which we could return to the owners (but strangely none of his own) he also stole sausages off peoples barbeques, ham off sandwiches whilst they were being made (a story told to us by another cat owner as we were returning her cat's collar) and even a little girl's bracelet which never made it back to us. we had a bawling child at the door after that one.

anyway, one sunny day when we were sitting outside shad starts meowing from somewhere. eager to see what other treasure this cat had for us, we look to the source of the meowing. after a few moments he comes out of the bush looking very worried and with something large and bright yellow in his mouth. he ran to us and we realised it wasn't in his mouth, but attatched to his collar. we also realised that it was...

a budgie

this bird had somehow escaped from its home and decide to attack the black killing machine, obviously not an intelligent budgie as birds were shad's favourite, but it had got itself attatched to his collar in the tustle.

Shadow was understandably confused as his favourite prey had first atacked him and then got itelf somewhere he couldn't reach it to eat the tasty yellow thing.

in the end we detatched them and put the budgie in a cage borrowed from one of the local cat owners we had grown friendships with whilst returning their many cat collars. we found it a home.

but remember if you have a budgie be careful, he'd eat you and everyone you care about if he had the chance...

Length, not too long, but canary yellow!
(Katzilla Follow Me! @Kat_Zilla (I don't promise funnehs), Fri 25 Apr 2008, 9:03, Reply)

As B3ta can't be arsed to set "new" QOTWs
Have a random answer copied from the Premonitions qotw ages ago, as there is no point telling you about my stupid cats yet again.

"Honest guv I weren't even there
When I was about 16 I worked in a hardware shop during school holidays & weekends. One evening I had a rather vivid dream about the shop being burgled. The next morning, walking in to work I bumped into the manageress. Walking along chatting merrily, I heard an alarm bell in the distance and joked that it was probably our shop as I'd dreamed we'd been burgled.

Lo and behold, get to the shop and it is indeed our alarm going off. Cue remarkable expression of horror / sudden realisation / uttter hatred on the face of managaress, and no doubt, an equally vivid expression of "oh shit" / "wish I hadn't said that" / "I'm about to befoul my underwear" upon my own face.

It didn't get much better, the culprits had evidently got in by kicking in a skylight window directly above a stockroom shelf which I had been up pissing around on the day before, kicking stock off for my workmate Greg to catch, with my footprints & fingerprints all over the place.

Shortly thereafter I found myself sat in front of some officers of her majesty's constabulary sobbing like a baby and desperately pleading that I really really really wasn't a burgling footpad with the audacity to turn up at the scene of the crime the next day and brag about my exploits.

I was only saved by the belated and spectacular realisation by the police several hours later that, although the skylight glass had been booted in, the metal bars underneath were very much intact, and as I was considerably less than six inches wide then neither myself - nor anybody else - had actually managed to get in.

And the manageress didn't even apologise. Hairy faced bitch.
(Soapy Norris, Tue 23 Nov 2004, 17:50, Ignore, Reply) "
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 8:17, Reply)

Trout have teeth.
Oh yes, the little fuckers do.
Catch one, stick a pair of needle nose pliers down their throat to get the hook out so you can gently stick it back in the water.......they WILL bite you! Hard!
But not as bad as catfish. Common misconception is that catfish whiskers are poisonous. Not at all. They have barbs on their fins, actually. And they're fucking sharp. The correct way to handle a catfish is to hold your right hand behind the fins on their side, and then hold you left hand behind their dorsal fin - that way the barbs won't get you.
Heaven help you if you're too drunk and it's your first time catching one.......blood, pierced hand.....stinging pain and infection for a week afterwards....
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 3:46, 3 replies)

bloodsucking vampire tanks
Me and a good friend of mine decided that as we were in our early twentys we needed a way to prove our manhood.

Found a website selling crossbows, at half price too. Well that is an opertunity one needs to take, £15 crossbow = very poor aiming but resonably powerfull.
A weeks impationt wait.
Googlemaps provided us with what seemed like a reasonably sized forest, so off we treked in my van.
As soon as we were at the forest in front of us a good 200meters away were 3 fine looking deer. hrmmmmmmm is what we thought, 15 pound weapon vs deer, we stumbled all around the sides to reach the sexy looking beasts, gettting closer, fwappp. Some bugger had left half a wire fence in the ground, flat on face all the deer were no more. never to be found over the next few hours. No rabbits or any other furries, what a waste of camo belts on head (plonkers). stumbled over some shotgun shells and felt a little out of our depth with fellow hunters that must have been using supperior weaponry so we left.

The animals attack - more like insects in the form of ticks.

I had never heard of ticks previously, had a phonecall from fellow hunter the next day inquiring if i had any spider things stuck in skin, took shower and inspected body. Absolutly everywhere, looked on wikipedia to found out what was eating me and how to remove them, decided on pliers. 28 in total. when ripped out with pliers they would still crawl away on the desk, indestructible tanklike insects.

Led in bed a few days later picking at belly button, and you guessed it found another one of my friends in there.

nature 1
me -1

think i shall be kinder to nature from now on, god taught me my lesson in the for of tinylings.

lenght ? size of a mouses nipple

*pop*
(Lord Potato, Fri 25 Apr 2008, 3:39, 1 reply)

May I add this tale of mirth
Sometimes I'm glad I'm not a biker, as this tale will attest. Either way, I fell off my chair when I read this...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 22:59, 1 reply)

Bilberrying
I went bilberrying with my collie-dog about five or six years ago to a local beauty spot* where there are lots of bilberries to be found. After picking enough as I could carry, we set off back down the hill and came to a field of Shetland ponies.
Shetland ponies aren't vicious - but their owners are. They'd padlocked the gate closed and even though I could get over, I couldn't get the dog to jump the wall. We were stuck. The ponies began to crowd around us, sniffing the bag of bilberries and backing us up against the gate. They kept coming closer, and closer, eventually standing on one of my feet. After I'd been creeped out enough I edged as near to the wall as possible, and decided that I'd have to launch the dog over the wall (no mean feat given that I weigh about the same as the dog - he didn't like being launched at all) and make a getaway.
But that wasn't the end of the adventure - about quarter of a mile down the road, a grey-haired, yellow-eyed dog slunk out of a farm driveway onto the road and started to stare at us. It growled as we advanced, warning us to keep away. When we were ten metres or so from it, it dashed towards us - we leapt over a fence into some tangled woodland to escape. The wood was so thick with brambles and thorns we couldn't move - stuck again. As we moved through the wood the dog followed our progress on the road - we couldn't get back. We just waited in the wood for it to go away, except it wouldn't.
Eventually, we were saved by a farmer's wife who was wielding a sickle ('to clear the ditches and drains'). She sent the evil dog home and we were free again.

Suprising, I have been back there to pick bilberries since - the evil dog must have died since it's been replaced by a collie. That's another story though.


* The carpark to said spot is closed now because it was being used for dogging
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 22:26, Reply)

Chasing cows whilst drunk
Coming from rural Shropshire, animals held no fear for me. Those were roughly the words I uttered one night after the pub, walking home to a friend's house accompanied by two of his mates from London. They were freaked by noises in the darkness coming from over the hedge.

"It's only cows" I reassured them and to prove my point, leapt over the next gate we came to and happily ran drunkenly through the muddy field, disturbing said bovine creatures.

How the cockneys laughed when at full speed I hit an electric fence and was propelled ten feet backwards and landed on my arse.

The moral of the story: never choose someone who knows something like that about you to be your Best Man.
(Mr McKenzie Mr McKenzie, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 21:28, Reply)

I don't know what it was but it hurt
A few years ago I was on holiday on Koh Samui in Thailand. One night me and my mate got nicely boozed up and decided we should go skinny dipping in the warm Gulf of Thailand.

I'd got in the water about up to my waist when I suddenly felt an excruciating stabbing pain in my hand. My mate, meanwhile, was happily frolicing around in the water, but I was having none of it and raced back to our bungalow, clutching my paw for dear life.

Once I got into the light I saw two large blackened puncture wounds in my hand, and the pain was just indescribable.

I've no idea what it was, but when I sobered up the next day I realised that whatever had stung/bit/jabbed me had probably passed pretty close to a much more tender part of my anatomy, and that would really have brought tears to my eyes.
(Thomas_The_Spankengine, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 21:23, Reply)

agh come on
Kids last week, animals (again) this week. This is getting like an ITV home-made clip show.

Worst first post ever.
(BarryChuckle, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 21:16, 2 replies)

Violent cattle
Spectacular timing on this QOTW. Just two days ago my dad (being a farmer and all) approached a cow that recently gave birth. He was on his cell phone and wasn't paying attention to the animal. She had no prior history of violence, but something about his approach this time pissed her off.

She decided to take it out on him by thrusting the top of her head into his chest. Being a pretty big (as in, stocky) guy, the impact didn't injure him.

What injured him was his landing--flat on his ass. *crunch* The cell phone went flying but the cow ended up standing above it. So he crawled off to the house and called the hospital.

No paralysis to speak of, but he'll be in a brace for a while until 2 vertebrae in his back heal up. As I understand it, the cow is still giving people the evil eye when they approach. (Not really a funny post, but yay me! it's my first!)

Edit: I've also had birds crap on me on two different occasions. So there.
(chikimonki, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 20:53, Reply)

Temporary post.
This is thoroughly off-topic, so I'll delete or change this post in a day or two. But until then, have a badge for your profile:



I didn't make it but its author is being too much of a big girl's blouse to claim the credit for herself- hence me posting it instead.

If you do put it in your profile, let us know- there simply have to be people on here older than I am! (I can only think of Legless, and he only has two years on me.)

To put it in your profile:

Right-click on the picture and pick "Copy Image Location" if you're using Firefox (if you're foolish enough to use Internet Exploder, you need to choose Properties, then copy the path of the image). Go into your profile and put in {img src="http://www.b3tards.com/u/4766cf149993eb7d8565/badge.jpg"} but use the little pointy brackets over the comma and period instead of the {}. You can just type in {img src=" and hit paste, then "}. Save your changes, and admire your new badge.

This also works for other pictures, of course.

HERE ENDETH THE LESSON.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 20:34, 18 replies)

My friend
has a Boxer dog. Big, canny beast. Wouldn't bite you even if you bit him first.

Too lazy to chase anything, too lazy to bark most of the time. Yet he gets attacked in the park all the time. Usually by wee tiny yappy dogs, whose owners always claim "It's alright, he's only playing."

So, he's in the park one day, watching the world go by, and a wee Yorkshire terrier starts harrassing him. Growling, snarling, yapping, totally futile. Toby (for that is the dog's name) is completely unimpressed.

The wee thug then jumped up at Toby's neck, and managed to get his teeth into his collar. Toby decided that enough was enough, and started trying to run away. Only the Yorkie has got a grip and won't let go. So there's Toby, belting round in circles, shaking his head, spit flying everywhere. The Yorkie is hanging on for grim death and its owner is screaming blue murder.

My friend managed to catch Toby eventually, and had to prise the Yorkie's teeth out of his collar. It promptly bit her. She grabbed the wee sod by the scruff of the neck and told the owner that if she didn't come and get the dog, it'd be drop-kicked back to her. Grumpy owner collects wee savage, muttering threats about calling the police.

My friend's answer to that?

"Go on then, report me to the police. There's one of them standing right over there." Yorkie was stuffed under her arm and she moved faster than John Prescott at a pie sale, straight out of the park at top speed.

Although not hurt, Toby developed an aversion to Yorkshire terriers after that and will attempt to run away if he sees one. Big coward!
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 19:43, 7 replies)

Black flies. Evil.
Once upon a time i was in the depths of the wilderness... in canada.

I was 4 hours away from Ottawa at a cottage by the lake. It was time for me to leave so i could make my flight back the UK, so off i trot back to the car. When all of a sudden... *bzzzzzzz*

Cue flailing. Cue running. OHSHITBUGGERYWHATTHEFUCKWASTHAT. The bastard bit me. Then it went amazingly fast and then bit me again! What the bloody hell do it do? MAKE FOR THE CAR!!!

I got inside the car, closed the door and the fucking thing kept flying at the window trying to eat me. Grrrr.

I hate black flies.

(Thanks Loon!)
( Axai is in Montréal, Canada O.o, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 18:49, 2 replies)

The chivalry of Robins
Robins are very territorial and get a bit stroppy if they see another Robin on their patch. However, A friend of mine is convinced that Robins are so aggressive that merely fighting each other with their beaks is not enough for some of time; no, according to him they will arm themselves with thorns and go jousting.

He seemed quite put out when we all started laughing and making "Brave, Brave Sir Robin!" jokes.

(I wasn't stabbed to death by thorn wielding robins in this anecdote you may be relieved to hear.)
(richardm, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:26, Reply)

Never let a calf suck your fingers

they are so strong that I swear to god, given time, they could suck them off...
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 17:18, 4 replies)

Cow headbutt
I remember it quite well when my younger brother was about 5 years old. My dad was taking us out for the day and we went to some kind of open farm (may have been Marsh Farm, Essex - well worth a look if you have kids!) where my dad held up my brother to see the cows in their pen and the cow headbutted him ... although I realise now it was probably painful and embarrassing, it was the funniest thing I'd seen in a long time...
(hangableautobulb is an anagram of the best album ever, on, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:42, Reply)

How many do you want?
I have worked at a couple of zoos, and on a farm, and in conservation projects in South America and kept a few odd pets in my time, so I have a fair old list of critters than have got me at one time or another. Mostly almost harmless injuries and generally they were my fault, but sometimes animals get mardy for no apparent reason and you just don't see it coming, or you make a serious mistake... I have been clawed by a (baby) tiger, been swiped at by an oryx, bitten on the face by a spider, had some near misses with deadly snakes, and had a possum sink its fangs into my thumb, but my only really serious injury was at the hands of a coati. For those who don't know them, they are cute little womble-like raccoon things with whiffy noses, orange fur and stripey tail. They make good pets when tamed properly or are nice dociel femles, and are evil fuckers when they are bad tempered males who have been mistreated. You probably know already what I was dealing with.

Anyway, I was at a conservation station in Peru (one of those 'gap year project' thingies that was actually quite crap - badly set-up by people who had no knowldeg of conservation or animal handling) and we ended up with a coati. Our leader (who could not have found his arse with two hands and a map) had decidedin his ignorance that buying unwanted pets form the local population (we were deep in the jungle on the madre dios) would semhow a) not encourgae them to get more pets to sell us by going after the wildlife we we supposed to be protecting, and b) would somehow survive fine once we released them back into the rainforest.

So one day so me farmer turns up with a sack that has apparently been paid for and dumps a large, aggressive and beligerent male coati quite literally on our doorstep. These things are agile and intelligent and as say he was half-tame already and wary, but not afraid of humans. If he was not caught and dealt with (well, released a good few miles away from us) he would hang around the camp, steal food, bite people, kill our own livestock (chcikens and terrapins) and generally be a pain. Only I am one of our guides had any animal experience and the previous owner had left th moment the bag hit the ground, so it wa sup to us. Nando had a decent grab at him and missed, andafter that the coati was wary of him and kept his distance, leaving muggins to do the dirty and catch the little bugger.

Not having handled them before I concluded the best thing to do was to pin him to the floor. Just use my weight and get on hand on his neck and another on his body and simply hold him down so others could bundle him into a sack. I knew that had been teeth and a mean bite, so Iwas going to be cautious. But then I made my big mistake - I took some advice. With this kind of thing, where you don't know the animla you should go with what you know, or at least a technique you have confidence in, but Nando assured me I could scruff him (pick him up by the loose fur at the back of the neck) if I was quick and since he had at least worked with coatis before, I took his advice. Big mistake.

While distracted with some eggs we through to him, the male let me get behind the Uncle Bulgaria-alike as he was been careful to keep Nando is his sights. I nearly went back to my origianl plan, but my friend urged me on, and so I stepped forward, grabbed a handful of skin and fur and lifted.

Coatis, I now know, have a *lot* of loose skin. I barely had him a foot off the ground when he turned and bit my thigh. Hard. Twice. I was immediately left with eight puncture wounds about half an inch deep in my left thigh (four in front and four behind) with a nice line in serious scrathes from all four of the little sod's legs making severl long parallel rakes down my thigh and calf. At this point I let go, but rahter than taking to the hills as you might expect (and as I expected), the damn thing hung on and continuted to scratch and bite. Now, I *do* have expecience with animals, but there are times when thought and training go out the window and you perhaps run around screaming with an angry and growling animal savages your leg and blood turns your socks and boots red and you repreatedly beat it over the head trying to make it let go. This may have been such an occasion. My heroic colleague in the meantime was doubled up with laughter, tears streaming down his face and pointing, barely able to speak even Spanish with hysterics as he wathed my pantomime attempts to remove said animal from my anatomy. Occasionally words like "blood" and "keeps biting" and "funny" would creep out, but noting especially helpful for removing a furry gin-trap from my thigh.

Eventually the thing got bored as far as I could tell s it just let got, dropped off and casually wandered back to the eggs it had left behind and carried on eating. With the nearest town being about 20 miles upstream, medical care was limited to some plasters and antiseptic and I basically had to sit still for three days becuase very time I tried to walk, the wounds would open up again becuase they were so deep, and in the heat and humidity they wouldn't clot quickly. I had scars for about 3 years, both from the teeth and claws.

Distracted by more eggs, Nando caught the coati about two hours later. By pinning it to the ground...


I guess the moral is go with your instincts and trust yourself. Oh yeah, and coatis are mean bastards with lots of skin, no matter how womble-like they might appear.
(Bob the Scutter, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:21, Reply)

Cows
Many a year ago, I used to live just near a farm owned by a friends dad. Many a summers day was spent messing about in the fields, driving about on quad bikes and moving animals.

Now this farm mostly kept cows, but had a few sheep as well. Stupid sheep, but they form a different story.

So one day we moved a herd of cows from one end of the farm to the other, through about 5 fields. We had just finished moving them and started to head back a different way. I was walking and the other guy was on the quad.

"You might want to hurry up," says he, "the cows are coming for you!"

I walk on regardless, disregarding his obvious falsehoods.

"You really might want to start running."

At this he started to speed up.

I thought I might want to turn round at this point, and as I did I witnessed roughly 50 cows running towards me.

Some undergarment soiling may have occured at this point.

I set off at a sprint, and got to the far gate which my friend had already gone through and closed. I did something later described as 'essentially running through the gate' and collapsed in a heap on the other side.

It was actually terrifying. The git.

Makes me happy that he has to put his hand in cows asses.
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:45, 1 reply)

a trouser snake
once vomited on me.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:24, 10 replies)

i was attacked by a pigeon
in trafalgar square. the little bastard pecked fuck out of my skull.
this may well have been because my dad, who by this time was sitting by the fountain, pissing himself laughing, had dumped a large hairy handful of seed* onto my head, turning me into an impromptu bird feeder.
twat.

*BIRD seed, you dirty-minded feckers!
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:23, Reply)

I was 16
and on a camping holiday with some friends. We were going to walk the Cornish coastal path, from the Plym to St Ives. But somewhere around St Austell we discovered cheap beer and lost our way.

We were walking for hours, lost in total, all-consuming darkness. If my three friends hadn't been there I know I'd have crapped myself.
Eventually we gave up searching for any sign of civilisation, and clumsily pitched our tents in a field.

After a good night's sleep, we all awoke and started to prepare breakfast, totally unaware of the danger that lay just over the horizon.
We'd brought a little stove that ran on meths, and my good friend, Seb, was trying to fry some sausages.
Dryw, a handsome, adventurous sort, spotted something, out in the distance, 'What's that?' He asked with a slight hint of panic in his voice.
We all looked to the edge of the field, where a herd of cows were silently grazing.
'Don't worry about them,' said Seb, re-assuringly, 'They wont bother us if we don't bother them.'

But Seb was wrong, so very, very wrong, he had no idea that these cows were in fact EVILBOVINEZOMBIES.

They shambled towards us, nearer and nearer, their impending presence spelling doom for our little camping spot.
It wasn't like we didn't see them coming, but they came fast, and we just about escaped with our lives.
They trampled the tents and stomped all over our things, I didn't really mind that though, nothing was broken.
What I did mind was that they ate all of our Super Noodles.

Cunts.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:04, 1 reply)

Well...
...does getting anally fisted by a Jack Russell terrier in the wee hours of the morning count?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:03, 7 replies)

Birds
Turns out I wasn't actually that late. What do you know?

So a short one to start. A bird once flew into my back. Really hard. With it's beak.

It then fell to the ground in pain.

Stupid bird.

/crap story.
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 15:02, Reply)

Did i miss something?
Oh yes - this QOTW the first time round

www.b3ta.com/questions/animalsattack/
(chili_kitten Cheese, peas and honey bees, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:55, 10 replies)

i am being headbutted by a cat
right now. she wants her dinner and likes to nut me in the back until she gets her own way
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 14:50, 7 replies)