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This is a question Darwin Awards

Bluffboy says: My mate cheated death and burned his eyebrows off looking down the barrel of a potato gun. Tell us about your brushes with the Grim Reaper through stupidity.

(, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 20:01)
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This question is now closed.

Flaming balls of shit!
I have a mate. He's a bad influence. When he and I get together, we're positively chaotic. This episode tells of a time shortly after he was blessed with his first child. Sit back and enjoy.

So my mate lives on a fairly remote farm. Not served by regular trash pickup, he is quite canny with his rubbish. Once their little crotchfruit came along, however, he and the missus quickly (within three days) tired of terry-towelling nappies, and bought disposables. All was fine for four months. To deal with the disposables, he simply tossed them into a 55-gallon oil drum outside the house.

Well, the inevitable happened and one day, the drum was full. This happily coincided with a hot autumn day, a visit from yours truly, and less happily, after quite a lot of beer had been drunk. What to do, what to do?

Burying? Nope - not biodegradable. Can't take it to the tip, we're all too pissed. No more drums, so can't start another load. I know; let's burn it! It's, after all, a metal oil drum. That'll work great! Ah, but the drum is full - to the very brim - with sh*tty nappies.

So Dumb and Dumber dug out a drill and cut a hole about a foot from the bottom of the drum. We then dribbled, over the course of the next two hours, five (FIVE!) gallons of petrol into the top of the barrel.

Then - and we both thought we were SO very clever - we used some detonation cord, and ran it through the hole in the bottom of the drum to light the petrol from the base of the fire.

Now - picture this in slow motion - the following things happened. The det cord lit. The burning ACME-like spark travelled prettily along the cord. It vanished into the freshly cut hole in the drum. There was a rumbling sound. That was the oh-no-second. We turned around and began to run. Behind us there was a sort of squishBOOM sound as the tragically explosive mixture of petrol and festering, rancid nappies exploded.

So here's what happened next. It turns out that (who knew?) 55-gallon oil drums are stronger than nappies, especially when the top of the drum is missing. When you ignite a tightly packed drum full of nappies from the bottom, you have created a superb nappy cannon. As we found out. After the squishBOOM, there was a louder FLOOOOOOM sound. I looked over my shoulder to see a huge tongue of fire leaping out of the drum, and balls of fire above that.

The balls of fire turned out to be flaming, shit filled nappies - which flew about 300 feet into the air and then started raining down on the house, the cars, the tractor, us and everything else. We also found out that stamping on them to put them out isn't nice.

The smell was truly incredible. Some of those nappies had been festering throughout a British summer, at the bottom of the nappy cannon. The sound of the molotov shittails thumping down around us, along with the smell of roasting piss, shit and rotten nappy will stay with me forever.

The final crowning glory was when his wife came out of the farmhouse, looked around at the still-unfolding carnage, muttered "fucking hell" and went back inside - not knowing that at least 30 flaming balls of shite were setting fire to the roof above her head.

We eventually got the fires put out, with not too much damage to property, but I was banned for a LONG time.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 0:56, 24 replies)
Inappropriate explosives.
I've sat on this story for a LONG time. More than 25 years. Now I live in a different country, on the other side of the world. So perhaps it's time to unburden myself of this tale. It is a story of stupidity, near-death, mayhem, soldiers and more. How I survived, I will never know. But here goes. It's a bit of a long story, with a 20-year-later twist, so apologies for length and girth, if not volume.

Back in the early 80's, I was an 11-year-old South African kid somewhat adrift in the world of English private boarding school. I'm not going to give any more detail than "the school was in the south of England". I was bright and nerdy, so they put me in the Scholarship Class. This class had only seven kids in it, and we were all quite bright. Science lessons were our favourites. They were conducted in a portakabin-type of classroom just outside the main school building, which was an old 1800's-style stately home affair.

Our science teacher decided that, since we were the "bright" kids, we were also the "responsible" kids - and stupidly gave each of us a key to the science lab, carte blanche to spend our time in there whenever we wanted, and a signed pad of requisition chits. These chits could be filled out and passed to the school secretary, and because they were already signed, we could - and did - requisition whatever we damned well liked. Can we spot a recipe for disaster yet? Read on...

A couple of the kids got into making beer and wine. I helped them and we made a still. Then we had a great trade going, selling beer, wine and moonshine to all the other kids in school (the oldest kid in our school was 13). This helped us raise some money. Another couple of kids used the science lab's darkroom to develop folks' films (for money, of course), pocketing the profits. I tired of the still once it was made, and didn't really care for the taste of the moonshine. But I did like the way it burned when you set fire to it... You will already know from my previous post to this QOTW that I'm a bit of a pyromaniac, so it was inevitable that I started experimenting with explosives.

From the boring (phosphorous in a shower head) to the exciting, I spanned the gamut of lethality. I then found a book called the Anarchist's Cookbook, which led me to my ruin. My first real achievement was to create almost a kilo of gunpowder. I used one of those huge science-lab mortars to mix the ingredients, with a large stone pestle to crush everything together. Once the mix was made, I poured a bit more than half away into a storage container, and then decided to "test" my mixture. On this occasion, I was alone in the science lab. So I lit a match, tossed it into the stone mortar (which had about half a pound of black powder in it) and legged it to the other end of the science lab.

From this "safe" distance, I watched as... nothing happened. Meh; I started walking back towards the mortar, when there was a blinding white flash and a spectacular "FOOM" sound. Yay! It worked! I was about 10 feet from it when it blew, and I still felt the shock/heat wave - cool! As I walked towards the mortar, this huge (10-15 kilo) stone mixing bowl slowly and silently cracked in half... and the pestle (itself a good 10 inches of granite) had vanished. Looking up, I noticed a perfectly round hole in the ceiling of the science lab, with powder burns all around it, and a matching hole in the roof above... Cue a chit from the pad for the school handyman to fix the roof. I explained it away as "a science experiment". Phew - got away with that, eh? Did I learn? Did I buggery.

The fascinating publication I had found then told me about nitro-glycerine. Chit for the ingredients? NO! Of course not - I'm not that stupid. I spread them out over three chits. So a little while later (wavy lines) there I am with three large beakers full of nitro, wandering about the lab showing me mates (I still shudder and get the cold sweats thinking about this). I took a pipette and squirted little drops onto the floor, where they amusingly exploded with little petard-like flashes and bangs. Cool, eh? Enough for me? Oh, no. Oh, no - not even slightly.

Turns out that you can use (unstable) nitro-glycerine to make much more stable dynamite sticks, which can then be used for wholesale destruction. And my faithful book told me what to do. Off to the woodworking shop went I, coming back with two large bin-bags full of sawdust. Then off to the kitchen for a roll of brown waxed paper. But that wasn't all. The other thing I needed was a method of ignition. Fire or impact will do it, and I couldn't get or make electric detonators. So I decided (on the advice of my book) to make fuse (or detonation) cord. Off to the school laundry, where I blagged three old threadbare sheets. Back to the science lab with my haul...

You make dynamite sticks by combining sawdust with liquid nitro-glycerine. This stabilises the nitro, so it's harder to ignite by accident. You can make them sturdy by wrapping the gooey mix up in wax paper. You make the fuse cord by taking long strips of bedsheet, coating them with glue, coating them with a fine layer of the gunpowder you made earlier and then twisting it (before the glue dries) into a long string. You then cut 12" lengths of this string and insert it into the middle of each of your dynamite sticks, before you roll it all up and sellotape it tight.

Before long, I had 15 and a half sticks of dynamite, looking exactly like something you'd see on a Wile E Coyote cartoon (only without the ACME logos). I also, by this time, had an accomplice - Tim. Sorry, Tim. So what on earth do we do with this stuff now? This was a dilemma, to be sure. So Tim and I went for a walk outside to consider our options.

Outside the science lab was the stump of a massive old oak that had died many years before and had been chopped off, about 15 feet above the ground. The oak was wide enough around that we couldn't reach each other's hands if we both hugged the tree; it was a bit big, then. The stump was next to a barbed-wire fence, which was made up of wooden fence posts about 6" across, with barbed wire between them, at about 8 feet apart. Inspiration struck! Wouldn't it be awesome to use the massive, old, dense, heavy tree to absorb our explosion(s)? So - off to the woodworking lab again for a hand drill with a sufficient diameter bit to drill holes to take our sticks of dynamite.

It was exhausting, this - drilling holes in this old tree. The sticks that I'd made were about 10" long and 1" across, so each hole needed to be at least that size. However, we persevered, and over the next week or so, we went out and drilled holes until the tree was ringed with holes, about a foot from the ground. Unfortunately, we mis-counted, and the tree got 14 holes. But we had 15 and a half sticks... What to do? Well, there was that tempting fence right next to the tree... You guessed it; the post nearest the tree got a hole and so did the next one in line (toward the science lab).

So, now begins the Darwin part of the story.

I carefully inserted a stick into each hole in the tree, leaving the fuse cord sticking out. Each snicked home with a satisfying "thunk". The fence posts got, respectively, the spare full stick and the last half a stick. I then got my long roll of fuse cord and started at the side of the tree facing the science lab, tying each stick's cord to the roll and then moving clockwise around the tree to the next one. Soon enough, I had reached the fence, so I attached the full stick and then the final half stick. I ran the remaining cord to our shelter. Our shelter was, and I want to be completely clear about this, utter shite. It was a low (18 inches or so) berm of earth with grass on it, about 25 feet from the tree. Our plan was to lie on the ground behind the berm, light the fuse and watch the fun - if things got too hairy, we'd hide behind our carefully-chosen shelter.

With the inevitability of all really really stupid decisions, we lit the cord. If you've ever seen the little spark run down Wile E Coyote's fuse cord, I'm here to tell you that yes - in real life, it looked just like that. Only it moved a great deal faster than we were expecting. The spark jogged merrily along the ground to the first fence post, where the half stick was waiting. Exactly as planned, and in true Mythbusters style, the spark reached the knot, split in two and continued a) towards the next stick (a full one this time) in the second fence post, and b) into the drilled hole at the bottom of the first fence post, while we peeked over our berm like a pair of retarded Chads.

Then all sound ceased. The earth below us heaved, and the bottom of the first fence post vanished in a bright, blinding white flash and a huge cloud of splinters (tiny, tiny splinters that were also very much on fire). The shock wave knocked the wind out of us and flattened us to the ground, while the first fence post whizzed straight up, to be restrained by the barbed wire (I imagine a comedy "bwoinnnnngggg" noise).

Unfortunately, the shit train had, by now, well and truly left the station. That was, you will recall, just the first stick - and a half stick at that. It was about this time that the second one went off, followed by regular THUMP-THUMP-THUMP explosions as the remaining 14 full sticks - confined in their dense, wooden lairs, started to blow. The crushing, overwhelming force is impossible to describe. The earth beneath us was bucking and kicking. We couldn't hear a fucking thing; all hearing was gone. We couldn't breathe; there was a rapidly-expanding fireball full of wood splinters that engulfed the air around us. We were completely flattened behind our pathetic little berm and totally convinced that we were going to die.

When the concussions stopped, I risked a peek up, to see something even more horrifying, if that could be possible. The tree stump - all 15' of it - was rising majestically into the air atop a huge fireball. It was slowly corkscrewing, too (remember, the sticks went off in sequence, not all together). I will remind the gentle reader that we were not very far at all from the science lab... When you're 11, and deaf, and on fire, and you then see about eight tons of flaming tree rising into the air, your brain just kind of shuts down. I just lay there, mouth open, watching like a mong as the stump reached its apogee, and - gravity being a harsh mistress - began its inevitable return journey. My memories of the time have it going at least ten miles into the air; measuring the lateral distance later, I reckon I got it a real 200 to 300 feet up. When it began its downward journey, still burning like an Apollo rocket, I couldn't move to run out of its path. If it had landed on me, I wouldn't be here now. Luckily, it headed in the direction of the school pool, but didn't reach it. It crashed to earth (with another huge concussion) about halfway between the science lab and the pool, and began smouldering.

Now came the aftermath. Neither Tim nor I could hear ANYTHING. We looked at each other, and we could both tell we were talking (screaming?) because our mouths were moving, but neither of us could hear our own voices, let alone each other's. Tim was on fire, with burning sawdust and splinters on his back, so I quickly batted the flames out, and then he did the same for me. Then we thought to look around; take stock, if you will. Behind us, the science lab...

The wall facing us was scorched black and peppered with chunks of wood and splinters. Every single window was gone, and all the desks and tables inside the lab had been swept clear. Beyond the lab, the old school building was also in a bad way. Every window facing the science lab had been blown out, and - what was this? There was a flood of kids and teachers leaving the building very quickly indeed. I imagine they were screaming, as many mouths seemed to be wiiiiide open. The music teacher (male) was running like a girl, all flappy hands and arms and such, mouth wide open, trampling kids in his haste to leave. So Tim and I looked at each other; we stripped off our (burned) school jumpers, flung them into the science lab, and joined the screaming exodus. Just merged with them.

Then the police came, along with the fire engines, and the Army, too. We were all interviewed - every one of us - and the school was closed for two weeks. Once Tim and I could hear, we agreed on our story (we were in the science lab, doing homework, when - BOOM - and that's all we knew) and swore that neither of us would breathe a word for at least 20 years AND only if we'd emigrated. We were both absolutely shitting ourselves that we'd be caught. I mean; blowing up your school? That's Borstal for sure, right? The thing that bothered me the most was the incriminating trail of ingredient requests...

The Army posted a guard on the school for the next six months; we had nice squaddies with Landies and guns looking after us and the girls' school next door. The bomb squad came out, and they analysed the residue. They concluded that the IRA had targeted the school, blaming them for the home-made explosive and for trying to kill the poor widdle kiddies. It turned out that the chits went in the bin as soon as the stuff was ordered, and the overall bill for "stuff" drowned out my ingredients; nobody put two and two together at all. Impossibly, we got away with it.

To this day, I have a small glass vial with some of that gunpowder in it. I keep it to remind myself to NEVER BE THAT FUCKING STUPID again. Doesn't always work though.

EPILOGUE
Still with me? Thanks! So there is a final chapter in this story. A couple of years ago, my wife and I were living in California, next to a really nice American family. They invited us around for Thanksgiving dinner, and after a lovely feed, the cigars, brandy and stories came out. So I told this one, to general acclaim, horror and so on.

A week or so later, my Mum came to live with us (different story, don't ask), and the same family invited us all to Christmas dinner. At that same dinner, the family's son-in-law also attended. He's a fantastic sort; a practical joker, and exactly the sort of person with whom I should DEFINITELY NOT associate. So he started telling HIS stories. Then his father-in-law uttered the fateful words... "Lustfish! Tell Zak the story about blowing up your sch...." But it was too late. Me, standing behind my mother, making throat-cutting motions and mouthing "Ix-nay on the ool-skay"... My mum turned around, and with a look of pure frost, said "yes, why DON'T you tell us that story...?".

All those years, and I never told her. Never breathed a word. She had had to come and take me out of school because of the nasty old IRA, and she never knew it was me... She didn't speak to me for weeks (WIN) and still hasn't quite come to terms with the whole thing. Mouth like a cat's bum or what!

This whole episode made the front pages of all the rags in England that year, until the government put a media blackout on it. They didn't want the IRA getting the publicity, apparently.

How I'm still alive today is a complete mystery, to be honest.

Apologies once again for length!
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 21:17, 20 replies)
Big Jake
This was the most scared I've ever been in my life.

I really did think I was going to die, and worse still, I thought I was going to be on the front of every tabloid newspaper the length and breadth of the land, possibly abroad too. During my ordeal all I could think about was my poor parents and how they would cope with the swarms of reporters asking probing questions. I imagined my distraught mother having a nervous breakdown...

And all because of Big Jake.

A few years back I used to knock boots with a girl named Emma. Nice girl, scouser, bit erratic but incredibly kinky. Nice arse too.

One fateful day I was off work with a busted foot. Had the fucker in plaster and could only hobble about. Emma had gone to work and I was seriously bored by eleven o'clock.

Seriously...

After a bit of Richard & Judy, I remember limping to the bedroom. I thought about lying on the bed for a marathon wank session (watching Judy on the TV had that weird sexy effect on me), but I just didn't feel up to it. I was too bored to wank, this was fucking serious!

Eventually I settled in front of Emma's dresser. I hit on an idea - basically I figured I could while away a bit of time thumbing through her sexy undies drawer, just sort of feeling the fabric, perhaps having a bit of a smell, reminiscing about the times I'd seen Emma wear the frilly, flimsy, lacy erection inducing gear.

And that's what I did. For about a minute.

And then I found Big Jake.

Now, I knew of Big Jake already - I'd been lucky enough to see Emma ram him up her vertical smile on several occasions. Big Jake reminded me of happy, loving, and downright squelchy times.

Ahh, Big Jake! I thought, as I got him out the draw and felt the weight of him in my hands. Nice. Felt a bit like I imagine a good heavy club would feel. Only Big Jake was jet black, veiny, and had a motor your average 125cc motorcycle would be proud of. Emma had picked Big Jake up in Amsterdam. He was, quite frankly, fucking HUGE and FAT, fat like an American fat.

And that's when the thought went through my head...

God, how I wish I could turn back time, put Big Jake back in the draw, and go back to a bit more Richard and Judy before a lunchtime ham sandwich.

But no, not me.

I thought: I wonder what it feels like to have a cock up your arse? I mean, several million gay fellas can't be wrong, can they?

And the thought stuck in my head and crystalised.

I considered having a go on Big Jake in the bedroom, but thought: what if I shit myself? So decided somewhere easier to clean would be more practical.

Moments later, I'd hobbled over to the bathroom, stark bollock naked except for my foot cast, my clothes tossed about the flat in *ahem* gay abandon. I found myself squatting in the empty bath, using the sides for support, with Big Jake greased and ready to go below me, humming like a bandsaw.

Then I lowered my arse over him, and when he was tickling my ring, in a sudden and incredibly painful split second, my fucked up foot gave way and I slipped-

-DIRECTLY ONTO BIG JAKE, RIGHT UP TO THE MOTHERING HILT-

Fuck me!

Pain?

I had never felt that much agony in my fucking life...

It was like being fisted by the Statue of Liberty, with the tourch on fire.

I nearly passed out, but somehow managed to keep it together. My teeth were vibrating from the raw power of Big Jake, it was fucking horrible. When Emma had him in her she was usually howling... but not in the same way I was now.

Eventually, when the ability to move my arms returned, I managed to reach down between my legs and switch Big Jake off. My brain stopped buzzing. It stopped feeling like I was having an epileptic fit. I was weak and sweaty and had a fake cock up my arse. Not a very pleasant feeling...

And there I stayed, for a good fifteen minutes, lying prostrate in an empty bath with Big Jake buried deep in my colon.

That's when I started thinking about the tabloids.

Then I started to panic. And when I panic, I take the only sensible course of action. I cry.

Eventually, after lots of crying and failed attempts, I managed to free Big Jake from my raw ring, which had sort of spasmed and clamped Big Jake in place like a steel vice.

As soon as he was out, I did an absolutely amazing shit in the bath that looked like a large coiled brown python, and then I collapsed on top of it, smearing splashy shit up the walls and even managing to get a few flecks on the ceiling.

After a few more frantic minutes of crying, I could feel the movement ebb back into my legs.

Took me ages to clean the place up... What with the broken foot and sore arse.

When Emma came home that evening she asked me what I'd been up to.

"Oh, the usual," I smiled back nervously. She didn't seem to notice that I couldn't sit down properly.

Couldn't exactly say: "Oh, I impaled myself on your twelve inch dildo in the bath, could've ruptured some internal organs and died in a slick of my own shit, blood, piss and vomit."

And I have to admit the next time Emma used Big Jake infront of me, all I could do was wince inwardly...

...maybe I should've cleaned him properly before I put him back in the drawer???
(, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 23:37, 28 replies)
Trains, Coke Bottles and Head
Back when I was a student I would regularly take the train from Manchester down to Coventry to see the folks.

On one such occasion it was a blisteringly hot day, I had a bit of time to kill, so stopped off for a few pints in the pub next to the station. Afterwards, feeling good with the world, I went to Manchester Piccadilly and boarded my train.

Everything was going swimmingly until I got to Macclesfield. That's when the four pints I'd quaffed had passed trough my system and decided they wanted to make a speedy exit. Leisurly, I got up from my seat and went to find the bogs-

-but the bogs were out of order.

Nevermind, I thought, just go to the next carriage. Several minutes later, being tossed about by the movement of the train which was doing no good at all to my bladder, I was stood infront of another set of toilets. And these one's had the familiar out of order sign and a fucking big lock on the door.

Arse!

This went on for the entire length of the train. I knew something was amiss as some other passangers were doing the same thing.

"Fucking British Rail!" Someone said as I passed, "The guard told me they were running late and didn't have time to service the toilets in Manchester. We're gonna have to wait til we get to Crewe, then they're gonna hold us up for half an hour while they sort um out."

CREWE!!! Fuck me, that's a good hour away!

Grumbling to myself I returned to my seat, planted myself down, and tried to take my mind off my bladder by looking out the window.

And all I seemed to see were rivers, streams, babbling-fucking-brooks, and the occasional Evian lorry...

Shit...

The four pints of Stella were starting to expand my bladder to the size of a football.

Jesus, I REALLY NEED TO PISS!!! I thought.

I considered doing it out the window, but the windows were those small ones which were far too high for me to get to anyway. I even considered finding a quiet spot somewhere in the carriage and pissing on the floor. Hmmmm, might just come to that....

And then I saw it.

Lying under the seat across the way, all lovely and glistening in the shafts of sunlight through the window.

Yes!!! Salvation!!!

As nonchalantly as possible when you're carring several gallons of piss, I sidled over and scooped up the empty Coke bottle. Returning to my seat I considered if I could get away with this. It was a pretty empty train, thankfully. There was an old lady in the seat in front, a couple over near the exit, several assorted families - it was half term, after all.

Then another thought struck me -

Do I really want a stranger's spit on my cock?

Shrugging, it'd never really stopped me before, what the hell.

I very carefully unzipped my fly, felt around for Mr Wee Wee, and pulled him free. I looked up, checking that no one had spied me. All clear.

I grasped my bell end and directed my japs eye into the bottle. And the RELIEF!!! I was suddenly very away of the gurggling, splashing noise. I directed my cock so the jet hit the sides of the bottle. Looking down I noticed I was managing to spray piss in my lap. Not good. It took some effort but I managed to ram the tip, just the tip, of my cock into the bottle, the rest of my bell end went a strange colour purple and started to swell round the lip as I tried to fit something considerably larger than a Coke bottle neck into a Coke bottle neck.

Then something fucking weird happened.

There was a terrible suction effect and in a flash my entire cock was in the bottle, swimming about in my own piss. It looked a bit like an incredibly fucked up ship in a bottle, only with cock instead. It was absolute fucking AGONY, as my cock was considerably thicker than the Coke bottle neck. It was being strangled at the base near my balls, while in the main vessel of the bottle my cock started to swell due to the strangulation further down. My wee chap looked rather like a pickled gerkin (a fucking large one, mind) in the jar at the chip shops through the murky yellow piss water.

Oh, FUCK!!!

I looked up - still fine, no one had noticed anything suspicious. So, I looked back down at the Twin Peaks moment in my lap. My cock was getting bigger. The heat of my own piss was waking the little fella up.

Oh, SHIT!!!

I pulled harder and harder and I could feel him getting harder and harder, and all the time the constriction on the base of my cock became more and more intense as the plastic effectively strangled and mangled me.

The pain was out of this fucking world. It was so fucking bad.

Someone walked past with a little kid to go to the buffet car. I hastily managed to cover my shame (or should that be pride), smiled at them, and then carried on tugging once they'd gone.

Oh, shit! What am I gonna do? I thought, looking down at my proud manhood, hard as rock, stuck inside a Coke bottle filled with my own piss.

I could fucking end up causing myself some serious harm here, I thought. Suction and cocks in certain situations is not good. I imagined I'd become an unwitting eunuch, or at least need some skin grafts; I wondered how much force my cock could take before it actually broke.

I sat in contemplation for a few minutes. My erection was getting stronger, if anything. I tried to think about Margaret Thatcher, but that just didn't seem to do the trick. The rythmic sloshing of warm piss with the rocking of the train and the weird strangulation effect were doing erotic things to my wee chap.

Only one thing for it, Spanky, I thought.

So, looking round even more, I started to rub the bottle up and down my shaft as best as I could. It was a bit like trying to free a geenie from a lamp, only involving my cock and a bottle full of warm piss. And it was INCREDIBLY PAINFUL!!! Most painful wank of my life, and God knows I've had plenty of those.

After a few minutes, looking over my shoulder for the return of the kid and parent from the buffet car, almost whimpering and passing out with each stroke, I squirted a healthy portion of cock snot into the bottle. The most difficult part was not making a sound, I had to bite down hard on my lip. And as inevitably as the tide and the seasons, my cock started to soften and I was able to, with incredible pain and discomfort, pull him out. There was a loud POP!!! Which caused the old woman in front to look round and give me a stern look. God, if only she knew...

My parents met me at the station in Coventry. Hugs all round (despite the overpowering smell of urine). When we got to their house my mum offered to wash my backpack, but I really didn't think she'd fancy finding a Coke bottle full of her son's piss and spunk inside, so I declined.
(, Sun 15 Feb 2009, 0:56, 15 replies)
I'd come out of a bad relationship with a madwoman...
Who ended up stalking me for a number of months.

After about a month of not hearing a thing, no drive-bys, not so much as a muffled fart in the bushes, I figure, she's finally got over it, and I'm free to roam once more.

Fast forward another month, it's a quiet summer Sunday in Brisbane, Australia, I'm sitting on my back deck with a beer, enjoying the sun, the breeze, and most of all, the peace and quiet with the new girlfriend, when I hear a knock on the door.

"Probably just the Jehova's again, I'll piss them off and be back in a sec" I say to her, and I get up to go answer it.

Front up to the door, pull it open, and BLAM, something hits me in the chest like a barefisted Mike Tyson pick up line, and the second worst pain I've ever felt(EDIT: The absolute worst was being stung by a box jellyfish while surfing), like someone had just hammered a red-hot nail into me.

Yes, b3tans, You're guessing correctly - THE CRAZY BINT SHOT ME IN THE FUCKING CHEST.

I've collapsed backwards, with barely enough presence of mind to kick failingly at the door to try and kick the thing shut - the young miss whose company I was previously enjoying rounds the corner just as another .25 round thumps into the solid oak door - Luckily I've managed to kick it closed at this point.

Of course, she freaked out, called the Ambulance and police on her mobile - the latter managing to catch the mad bitch in question about 3 kilometers away, trying to throw the rifle into a creek that runs through the nearby park.

Happily, she had fired a little too eagerly - she missed the main part of my chest, missed the sub-clavian artery by about half a cunt hair, and managed to lodge the thing just around my armpit after it clipped bone.

Docs managed to pull it out, and I happily handed it over to the police as evidence - though, the also retrived a raving mad ex-girlfriend/stalker, and a slightly muddy .25 rifle from the creek.

She's now doing roughly her 4th of 15 years in prison, and I'm living in Leeds, about as far away from mad bitches with rifles as I can get.

Apologies for the length, but not the caliber.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 13:55, 12 replies)
The Tale Of Kaol And The Hoover
Back when I was in my first year of university I was living in a "Luxury, Catered Hall Of Residence".

Turns out it wasn't quite as described.
The window frame was unclosably-fucked, the walls had slimy, creeping mould-problems, the food tasted like it was made of boiled abortions and the retards that lived on my corridor seemed to have no purpose in life other than setting the fire alarm off at 3am every morning.

We had fortnightly room inspections, to make sure that we didn't have any items on the "banned list*" in our possession, and to check that we hadn't shit on the floor and smeared it on the walls.

I passed the above test, with flying colours, but was told to "hoover the carpet".
Fair enough, I thought.
So, off I went to get the municiple Henry, only to find that the morons that I lived with had "killed" it in an attempt to see "how many pints of water we can feed it before it explodes. Five, apparently.
I wish it had fried them.

It was 13 days before we got a replacement.
So, the morning of the next room inspection, I crawled out of bed, the room spinning from a night that involved too much cheap vodka and not enough sleep.

I started hoovering.

I wondered how powerful the suction was.

I decided to put the pipe in my mouth.

Turns out that a hoover can suck all of the air out of your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe and a horrible dry feeling, deep inside.
Takes a good fifteen minutes to recover from this rapid evacuation, during which time the room inspectors will find you, on the floor, mostly naked.
It feels like years of your life have been forcibly removed.

*A list that included "Inflatable furniture", "Posters" and possibly "Livestock".
(, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 16:47, 20 replies)
Car Sex
I remember sitting in the Golf with Marilyn. It was her car, I don't drive. I must've been twenty-one or twenty-two.

We'd been to see Jurassic Park, I'd taken her (well, she'd drive me) to Burger King. No expense spared. I'd even shelled out for a king size meal.

Now it was much later. It was a hot summer that year and we sat there, talking small talk, edging closer to each other.

After a while my hand moved to her thigh and her legs parted ever so slightly. She continued to talk about her degree course although I really wasn't listening.

We kissed. Marilyn's legs parted a little more and she put her hand on mine and guided me towards her hot wet area. Result!

Marilyn said: "I'm not on the pill." Shit! I didn't have any condoms, completely forgot! But she continued, smiling coyly: "You could just go down on me."

Well, that will do nicely, ma'm, I thought.

Moments later she was in the backseat, legs spread wide, kinckers pulled to one side. I was in the front seats still but had turned and forced myself down in the gap just above the gear box.

Then I got down to work. Things were going well. Marilyn was making lots of encouraging noises and her hands were stroking my head. I kept supping at the furry cup and Marilyn's moans became louder, more frantic. Her thighs closed round my ears and her hands clawed at my head.

And all the time all I could think was: Fuck me, this is uncomfortable! Sex and cars just does not fucking work.

But I perservered, like the trooper I am.

And after a few more uncomfortable moments which seemed to last forever, sucking on her beef lips, Marilyn started to cum. She started to moan and I swear the car moved.

Her thighs clamped my head tight and her fingernails dug into my scalp.

And then I started to suffocate. Oh, come on! I thought. I'm gonna cark it down here!

Then with a quivery "Ohhhh, Gaaawwwwddd!!!" Marilyn climaxed.

And as she did so, her thighs went limp and her arms spasmed and rammed my head down with a jolt, and the gear stick stabbed me in the abdomen while similtaniously my teeth hit the car floor.


Then we crashed...

Thankfully only into a fence (still showing the damage now years later; Sixfields car park in Northampton, if you're interested - there should be a little blue plaque with our names on it).

Turns out the earth had moved for Marilyn, and me for that matter. In my excitement, or should that be discomfort, I'd kicked the handbrake and we'd freewheeled fifty feet or so down the hill, building momentum, going faster and faster and then TWAT - as the Golf hit the fence I flew forward and thought for one horrific nanosecond my head was going to vanish up Marilyn's fuzzbox. Instead I just slammed into her really... very... fucking... hard...

Strangest thing for me was going to casualty in an ambulance stinking of pussy. That was just wrong.

Sex in cars...

Bad idea.

How the fuck we didn't end up with the angels I do not know.
(, Sat 14 Feb 2009, 0:44, 5 replies)
how about
the children of my friend evie and the new object of her lustful affections, who will never be born after she failed to use her new phone properly.

meaning to text him after a difficult day at work, she tried to type "just had a shit day but looking forward to seeing you tonight".

being a cack-handed cow, she pressed "send" a bit too soon.

"just had a shit"

then had to sit for a mortified 30 minutes as the tube went underground before she could rectify the damage.

no number of humiliated explanatory texts and emails managed to recover the magic after that.
(, Mon 16 Feb 2009, 15:08, 5 replies)
Gunpowder
My brother and I, bright, inventive, slightly dysfunctional children - would make homemade gunpowder when we were kids.

We knew the recipe from books - charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur - I believe in 75/15/10 percent ratios if you want to make some yourself (it's been quite a long time) - something like that anyway.

Our homemade from scratch stuff wasn't amazing, but it burned, and when we started mixing in the professional stuff from model rocket engines (if you dig out the clay end and smush the cardboard tube, you get quite a good amount) - and then it was considerably better.

We made bigger engines, we made things that just went Boom, my brother carried a container of the stuff around with him in his backpack. Mostly cause it was "cool" and it impressed his friends, I guess. I dunno - maybe he had explosive plans. I probably should have asked.

Can you imagine doing that in an american school today?

Anyway - at one point, I read in a book that musketry really improved in distance and power when they discovered that if you mix gunpowder up wet and then dry it in the sun, the mixture is better for some reason and the power goes up an huge amount.

And for the record - it seemed to work. At the very least through the subjective view of young teenagers fugging about, the booms seemed better.

All in all - it was good, the only tricky part was making all this in the back yard of our little suburban town home and getting it properly dried and stored before the parents got home.

My brother made a big batch one day and it wasn't drying fast enough, I said "Well, on a very low heat, it's an electric oven, no gas or flame anywhere... it should probably be ok... but really - lets not risk it, just wrap it up and we'll dry it tomorrow..."

Cause I was dumb enough to think out loud back then and progress through my ideas verbally, instead of just saying the last / smartest thing instead.

My brother nodded and, my mess cleaned up, I went upstairs to play videogames.

Not 5 minutes later...

I felt the explosion upstairs.

I encountered my brother on the stairs and all he could say over and over was "that wasn't smart, that wasn't smart..." - just babbling.

Smoke was billowing across the downstairs ceiling.

I left my brother on the stairs and went into the kitchen, opening windows and turning on the blower fans over the stove as I went.

I was confused, the oven (which I assumed my brother had exploded) looked just fine. In fact the smoke and soot stains on the walls didn't even come from it they came from ...

Hey...

Where was the microwave?

...

Ah.

I see.

It's in two parts, on either side of the kitchen - I didn't notice that coming in with the smoke and everything.

My brother couldn't really hear me very well when I talked to him. But he did try to explain...


He thought the microwave would be faster.

He thought putting Gunpowder in the microwave would be just fine.

He realized however, at this point, with with proper reflection, and after all evidence had come in - that it was not ok, and you shouldn't do it.


We wiped up the soot stains on the walls and ceiling, washed the whole house with lysol to hide the smoke smell as best we could, ran the fans, opened all the doors and windows, washed the microwave out, semi kinda halfway re-attached the microwave door back to the microwave so it kinda looked like it was whole again. Put it back where it normally went...

When, that night, my mom opened the microwave to cook something and the door came off in her hand... we were sure to be nowhere around.

Mom, cause I know you read B3ta sometimes ... I'm sorry about the microwave. You thought it was cheap and got old and fell apart, but really - we exploded it.

Sorry =/
(, Wed 18 Feb 2009, 23:04, 2 replies)
Just remembered (too late to win but hey)
The "Railgun incident" as it became known at my old alma mater.

I was a sciency type at school, I pestered our physics teacher to allow us to make a railgun "to demonstrate the power of electricity/magnetism" or some such bollocks. In truth we were teenage boys so any projectile hurling gizmo was ok by us (and after the "School pond incident" I was not allowed near any burny explody things) so we built one!

A railgun is a way of throwing ferrous projectiles using the power of electromagnets. Basically you get a series of magnets arranged along and around a tube, each switched by the previous one, to drag the projectile down to the end where it flies out at amazing speed. No propellant, no chemicals, just magnetism.

We decided to power it with mains electricity. Bad move.

The switching was simple, as the projectile reached a magnet it made a circuit to the next one and switched off the one it had just left and so on.

In hindsight perhaps we shouldn't have made so many magnets (25) or made them quite so strong. Perhaps a 50mm steel ballbearing was a bit big for our first projectile. Probably we should have taken heed of the law of motion " for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction".

However, we took some precautions. We placed the railgun, all 2 metres of it, outside on to the school playing field and set it up on a workmate. We neglected to strap it down.

Once the power was hooked up, we put the projectile in the breech end and took up our stations behind it, I mean, we were well behind the line of fire so what's the worst that could happen?

Imagine if you will our surprise when the switch was pressed. There was no noise as the railgun threw itself backwards at some speed into the throng of eagerly watching schoolboys. luckily it missed everyone but caught my blazer and tore it off me like a hen night strippers uniform.

Had it hit me it would have punched a hole through me big enough to put your head in. As it was, it only buried itself in the brick wall of the swimming pool.

50 yards away.

We never found the projectile.

I was banned from suggesting any science experiments after that.
(, Wed 18 Feb 2009, 10:24, 15 replies)
Oh, the irony
Many years ago back in my student days I attended a family christening in Basingstoke. Being an Irish family christening rather a lot of beer was consumed, so I ended up back at the train station in an advanced state of refreshment.

I boarded my train back to Reading only to be told that nothing was moving as the IRA had bombed Reading station. After some time I was desperate for a whizz. Remembering that you shoudn't use the train toilets in the station I got off to use the one on the platform. As I wandered in I noticed that the floor was flooded, so I tip-toed my way through in my mate's best shoes (being a scummy student I had borrowed them to look smart). I had my slash, got back on the train and eventually made it back to Reading after clubbing together with a few other travellers and going by taxi.


It wasn't til the next weekend when I went back to Basingstoke to meet some friends that I was confronted by a large number of police, all asking whether people had been there the previous weekend. When I said that I had they whisked me off to be interviewed by a raher frightening CID copper. Turns out he had a brilliant description of me leaving the toilet trailing wet footprints. When I agreed that yes, that would have been me, he looked at me very serioulsy and in a low voice said "Do you realise you had a piss 10 feet from 5 pounds of semtex?" *Gulp* Turns out the bomb had been put in a toilet cistern, holding the ball cock down and flooding the floor. When I asked if that was a big bomb he said "It would have levelled the fucking station".

Length? Substantially longer than after I learnt the news and it shrivelled up inside my body
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 15:16, 5 replies)
John and the Incredible Exploding Gunpowder Plot
I once shared a flat with an incredibly posh fella named John. He was great. Absolutely mental.

To say John was a bit of a ladies man is like saying Keith Richards likes a good night out. John was constantly getting laid, bringing strange girls back to the flat and doing the dirty deed.

One particular night, I was in the kitchen making some toast when John, with his latest conquest waiting in the bedroom, walks in wearing his dressing gown, he goes over to the cupboard and gets out the cheese grater.

"Alright, Spanky," said John, as he turned on his heels and fucked off back to his bedroom.

Nonplused, I continued making my toast.

The next morning I noticed the cheese grater on the draining board. I was scared...

"Errr, John, mate - what the fuck did you do with that last night?" I asked.

He looked at me with his cheeky Robbie Williams smile (aparently people said he looked like the monkey-faced twat from Take That), and said: "Spanky... you really don't want to know."

And from that moment on I never had grated cheese in that flat again, and I started sterilising any utensils in hot water before I used them.

Now, I've mentioned that John was posh. I mean, POSH. He was a proper toff. He even went shooting pheasants (not peasants like I thought he said), on Boxing Day with his old man.

And this is how he managed to get hold of some shotgun cartridges. He kept them in his draw.

A week or so after the cheese grater incident of shame, as I like to call it, John brought another young lady back. This one I'd seen before and I knew I was in for a sleepless night - I nicknamed her Screamy Sue, because it was in her nature to howl like she was being electrocuted when she was having a cock inside her.

John and Screamy Sue fucked off to his room, I settle down to watch Smokey and the Bandit on DVD.

After a few moments I heard the most incredible and enduring blood curdling scream. Fucking Screamy Sue, I thought, wondering if I could pop in John's room and gag her. But then I realised it was a masculine, manly scream. It was John.

Fuck me, that's a bit odd, I thought.

Then suddenly the flat was filled with: "SPAA-NNNNN-KKKK-YYYY !!! HEEEE-LLLL-PPPP MMMMEEEEEE !!!"

Oh, sweet holy mother of fuck! I thought. Screamy Sue's only gone and stabbed as part of some weird kinky sex game gone wrong.

I tear-arsed off the sofa, got to John's room, flung open the door-

-and saw something... really... fucking... strange...

Well, first off there was a rather sexy looking naked girl in the room, so I had a good look at her. Yes, she was crying and had mascara streaming down her face so she looked like she was a member of Kiss, but she was naked and rather hot.

But not the hottest thing in the room.

John was strapped to the bed with bondage tape.

And he was on fire. Well, his chest was on fire. He looked up at me and screamed for me to put the flames out.

I ran back to the kitchen, filled up a saucepan, ran back and chucked it on him, dousing the flames with a long sizzling sound. It smelt like burned hair and skin in John's room. Fucking horrible.

A few moments later Scarey Sue was in a taxi heading back to Kensington. John and I were in the livingroom, smoking. John was wrapped in sodden bogroll - he looked like a fucking mummy from the waist up and the neck down.

I just happened to ask John in as tactful a way as possible: "WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED???"

And he explained.

Apparently, in his pissed up state, he managed to convince Scarey Sue to set fire to him. Well, to his chest hair. Apparently he got a bit of a buzz from the feel of his chest wig burning... He'd found a shotgun cartridge in his draw, broke it open, asked Sue to tie him to the bed, pour the gunpowder from the cartridge on his chest liberally, and...

... set fire to it...

*silence*

Eventually I piped up: "You owe me bigtime, fella... I don't mind saving your fucking life, but I've just seen your cock, and there's some things I just don't ever need to see..."

The upper classes are weird.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:38, 7 replies)
the wasp nest
a while back, i lived in a house with a lovely big garden. rockery, the works.
one day, whilst enjoying the taste of a fine jamaican rollup, i noticed a wasp. well, i say a wasp, this was a Wasp. capitalised. one of those angry germanic bastard wasps, with the red bits like a dwarf hornet. it was following a very specific path, every few minutes (may have been more than one in retrospect) under a big slap of the old garden path in the rockery.

a day or two later, there could be seen a pinky-sized hole, under the rock, and three or four wasps. in and out.

a day or two later it was like fuckin heathrow.
me and the landlord decided it was time for ACTION!

we decided to try and flood them out.

sneaky hosepipe action later and suddenly there is a 2ft across ball of furious wasps chasin us as we leg it into the house and slam all the windows.


so we leave it a couple of days. a plan is formulated.

we return that night armed with a funnel, a length of hose, and a half-pint of petrol. end of hose gingerly fed into now 2.5" hole. petrol poured in.
how to light it? flick matches until one catches.

unfortunately, we did NOT count on the propulsion effect launching a cloud of angry, flaming, wasps out like some kind of hideous death cannon. interesting facts, wapss are pretty nippy on their toes if de-winged... also the huge cloud of wasps that followed told us in no uncertain terms we had a BIG nest. at this point, really, we should have called in pest control. did we? did we fuck as like. one of them stung my buddy, this was WAR.

a couple days passed, a tense standoff. we'd stare out the window at our now wasp-run garden, they would ping off the windows periodically, and now and then make incursions into the kitchen.

eventually, we decided the best course of action was to get the big bit of concrete path off the top, so we could see what was under it. after some coin-tossing, prevaricating, my mate got kitted up in a home-made wasp-proof suit wheelie bin liners, duct tape, bandanas, tin of raid) ran in, hooked a big crowbar over the back edge and flipped it over. a few wasps came out and we scarpered, but it wasn't as dramatic as we hoped.

then muggins here decided to lob a head-sized piece of granite at the hole to 'block it'

the rock hit the soil, and disappeared out of sight. i was afforded a brief glimpse of a seemingly endless papery fortress like the fuckin death star before an anbsolute raging TORRENT of these bastards came out, we ran like fuck for the house, slammed the door behind us, heaved a sigh of relief.
about that time the neighbour started screaming blue murder... poor cow was out in her garden, sunbathing with her earphones in.

the swarm was i kid you not, filling the entire back garden and the neighbours. when we finally got the pest people in the nest was one of the biggest they'd seen, a 4FOOT across underground chasm with a couple of ante-chambers, ours was the latest in a series of entrances to open up.

i kid you not, even for normal non-wasp allergic types, there was EASILY enough wasps to kill us stone dead.
so take note folks
if wasps were a couple inches longer, we would ALL be their bitches.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 18:19, 6 replies)
Still surfin? Every day..
I've always wanted to be one of those tall bronzed surfer types. Unfortunately I would describe my looks as being quintessentially British; more Onslow though, than Jude Law.

Anyway about 15 years ago I went to Australia, and decided I was going to be a surfer. I bought a 'boogie board' and a wetsuit, headed to Bondi, zipped myself up and headed into the surf. I must have looked a bit like a hairy squash ball.

I paddled out for about 20 minutes. I didn't look back but I knew I must have got pretty far - I was just looking for the perfect wave.

That wave came a second later - a monster that knocked me off my board and into the cold, merciless ocean. I panicked and swallowed a huge mouthful of seawater. My days were up!

Luckily I remembered what to do in this situation - I clung onto my board and raised my arm in the air, praying that one of the lifeguards might spot me.

Moments later, thank God, the rescue boat came chugging towards me. It didn't seem to be in a massive rush, I noticed.

"You alright there mate?"
"Yes! Thank God. I think I'm OK, can you please help me?"
"Sure thing mate. Just put your feet down".
"What?!"
"Stop kicking and put your feet down".

I did as I was told. And stood up - the water came to just below my waist. I then turned around and realised I had, in fact, paddled about 5 metres from the beach. To add insult to injury a little kid in a rubber ring then paddled past me and waved.

I might have been mistaken but I'm pretty sure as they sped off one of the lifeguards muttered "bloody pommy idiot".
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 16:30, 3 replies)
I did done a whoopsy.
When I was a chemical undergrad (my first ‘dregree’, ahem), I was renowned for fucking up quite badly in practical experiment class to the extent that nobody wanted to be my lab partner. Although not totally moronic, the reason why I always fucked up was because the practical class was always on a Friday morning and the Thursday night before was the BIG night out of the week and I always got hammered and came home late, then rocked up to the class late, horrifically hungover, and probably inflammable. Anyway, this usually meant that a PHD student would be my partner.

This was good because I always managed to do well because of this by getting them to do the work and obtain decent product or whatever the aim of that particular experiment was.

Until the day that I was banned from practical experiment class.

We were tasked with trying to do some complex multi-staged series of reactions starting off with fluorite, a type of mineral. As you might guess, it contained fluorine. Not the nicest of elements. Also, there were a few PHD students missing so I was without a partner.

Due to my hungover and regular ineptitude, I unfortunately used the wrong reagent by mistake and instead used concentrated sulphuric acid. A product of this reaction was HF (hydrofluoric acid). Of course I didn’t really know this at the time.

I realised that I had perhaps had fucked up when I noticed an odd smell and that the glass of the fume cupboard had started to ‘frost up’. I called a supervisor over, and he amiably asked me what the matter was? I asked him about the glass. He quickly looked at the bottle of reagent that I had used, then grabbed me and sprinted over to the chemical spill place and smashed the fire/hazmat alarm.

Oh dear I thought. Oh dearie me. Also, my hands and wrists were tingling.

Everyone in the whole building was evacuated and a few minutes later some ambulances and a fire engine turned up. My supervisor ran over to the ambulance, dumped me with some paramedics, and ran over to the fire fighters. It turned out that once the fire brigade knew the nature of the alarm they refused to go in as they weren’t equipped. We had to wait for another twenty minutes before a specialist chemical spill team got there tooled up like a SWAT team with rebreathers.

I was taken to hospital and was diagnosed with HF poisoning and immediately was placed on a life support as HF can react with the calcium in the body to cause a cardiac arrest. As it was, I was already hypocalcaemic due to the sudden low levels of calcium in my body. The bones in my hands were fucked (they were ‘etched’ with HF) and I had to undergo treatment for weeks afterwards. I was told I was lucky to have kept them and if I had been splashed with HF they would have had to amputate.

I had caused £22,000 worth of damage to the chemistry department and that didn’t include the cost of the hazard team callout which apparently was ‘not cheap’.

It was all insured, but I was severely reprimanded by the Head of Chemistry and the University Chancellor and I was almost expelled. I was also banned from practicals and so I had to change my degree to incorporate another discipline to make up for the lack of practical credits.

However I had pulled an absolute beauty on the Thursday night before though so it was totally worth it.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 11:16, 5 replies)
Bikeov
~~~wavy lines~~~

Picture the scene if you will. It's Northumberland in the summer. The birds are tweeting and suchlike, and all is good with the world. This is the area that inspired Postman Pat.

I was around 8 years old. My parents lived in a village in the middle of nowhere (no shop, no pub, but there was a church...) Now, the newspapers got delivered to the next little hamlet around a mile from where my parents lived, and as a child I was entrusted to get on my sister's old bike (phnar phnar) and ride along the lane to get the papers.

My sister's bike was a monstrous green contraption that looked like it was made in a tractor factory in Treblinsk during the dark days of the Soviet Motherland. Somehow, bikeov (for that was what my sister had christened it) had made its way from the icy steppes to the slightly less icy hills of the north of England. Now, bikeov was far, far too fucking big for me, but as my sister had bought herself a brand new racing bike, and my old bike was far too small for me, and my parent's were tighter than an ugly nun's clunge, it was bikeov or walking. So, I picked bikeov out of the shed and wobbled up the road.

As I was returning with my newsly bounty (one could virtually hear bikeov complaining at the lack of state controlled media in the imperialist west - well, it was the Guardian) I saw a wonderful thing. It was half a broom handle. Discarded at the side of the road. Yes, OK, there was no broom attached, but to an 8 year old boy, suddenly, this was a gun! Huzzah! So I pulled over on bikeov, picked up my trophy, hauled myself back on, and started cycling away, with the pole held in something akin to a jousting position.
"Hmm," I thought as I rode along "I wonder if that scene in Indiana Jones really works." For those of you scratching your heads, I was of course referring to the scene where Indy sticks a flagpole through the wheels of a motorcycle being ridden by a Nazi. The Nazi then does a fairly spetacular somersault. I pull out the broom handle...

...here, things go a little fuzzy. I have had to work out the details afterwards.

I wake up to see a rather concerned neighbour standing over me. I can see sky....well out of one eye. The other eye I can see purple fireworks. Hmm...this is an interesting sensation. What's that noise? It seems to be a car. Mmm...this is nice and comfy lying here. I wont move too much. The neighbour has disappeared. I can hear him talking to someone quite urgently. Ah well, I might just go back to sleep....

....hey, what's this? I seem to be being lifted onto a bed. Ah, that's nice. My road was very comfy. Ohh...the bed seems to move. Oh, the sky's gone now. I'm in the back of some kind of van...oh well, quite tired....

...ah. I'm somewhere else. I don't know where. There's mum. She looks a bit worried...hi mum!!

....BLAUEUERUEURAGHHGHGHHHHHHHHHHHH.....

oh, sorry mum, I seem to have been a bit sick there. Why does my face hurt so much....?


I was in hospital for several days.

Bikeov survived in stoic communist style.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 1:02, 12 replies)
Now I am the expert
At fucking myself up in amusing ways...

Cue the first....(wavy lines)....

A year or two back, thoroughly pissed off with life, the universe, and selling cars to inbred yokels with fewer braincells than fingers (and that took some doing in Shropshire, I can tell you) I decided to go back and look again at the TA. The STABS. The SAS (Saturdays & Sundays). I had had the chance to go regular years before, but had splatted myself into the deck in an unfortunate parachute/fuckwit coincidence so had duff knees and was ineligible to travel the world, meet interesting people and blow their houses up in the name of Big Liz, the UN, or Tony Frigging 'World Statesman' Blair. Hey Ho.

Soo, I decided to get the lardy/beer related gut off that 4 years of fatherhood had mysteriously deposited on my once-rippling flanks. Back out on the road again, new trainers, all the bollocks. Until my aged and well pickled joints complained. Well, I'll get on the bike again, sez I, dragging the slightly rusted carcass of my noble steed out of the shed. Cue overhaul, greasing, lubeing and tweaking (then I left the missis alone and fixed the bike) (sorry).

Trial run. All seems well, the gears are a bit graunchy, but nothing that a bit of the 4lb Lump Hammer Fine Adjusting wouldn't cure.

And then, after a hard day, I stagger home, looking for nothing more than a dram and a scran. A refreshing beverage or two or so is imbibed. Peace........

Shes's "late". Oh Jesus Yellow Painted Rubbery Fuck on a Stick. I've got two "wonderful" kids. I have an overdraft the size of the GNP of Liberia.

These two may be related.

She needs an 'ohfuckI'mdeadstick' to dangle in the fragrant flow from her ladyparts to determine if I need to take a short stroll with a shotgun or can breathe again. I'm pissed.

A-Ha! The bike!

Whoops.

Helmet on. Check. High-Vis On. Check. Lights On. Check. Sense of Responsibilty? Absent.

Her last words as I charged out of the gate, legs pumping like a rutting Jack Russell's arse as I screamed off like a terrified overweight Banshee? "Use the Cycle Lane"

I use the cycle lane. Apert from the joys of Stealth Dogshit (yes it deserves the capitalisation, you haven't lived until warm, runny faeces are sprayed at pressure over your back) (unless you aspire to a career in politics, in which case it's a job requirement).

Kerby bit. Down. Kerby bit. Huup.....crunch. Twatted the wheel in such a manner that it buckled, jammed in the forks, and catapulted me into a fence, in a flying stye only adopted by gutshot swans, drunken dodos, and unlucky members of the Luftwaffe. Double crunch.

You know those fences that are squared off railway sleepers, with the pointy bits pointing outwards? I fucking do know. Three sprung ribs and a sense of burning embarrasment as the local teenagers jeer at the fat bloke in the hedge.

Seven hours later, I arrive home, having stashed what remained of the bike with the very lovely staff of the local Sainburys who had let me phone for a taxi to take me to A&E (where I was forced to deck one of the local crackheads who desired my wallet/organs/change, pushing myself back in the list by 2 hours as he got seen to before me) AND having been forced to watch late night TV, I arrived home, screaming like a distressed virgin every time I coughed, to present the frangrant and lovely Mrs Osok with the 'don't go blue for fuck's sake' thingies.

They didn't.

She had got her dates 'confused'

I love my wife, but I must admit I did kick (fall over) the cat's arse that night and may well piss on her grave while singing 'Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead' because of that night.

Darwin? Stay on the frigging Beagle. I don't even need contraception to avoid breeding, just a fence, half a bottle of Spiced Rum, and a sense of Emergency.

Sheesh.
(, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 22:43, 7 replies)
Butterfly
My baby brother desperately wanted to be a butterfly when he was a kid. I told him he had to be a caterpillar first.

That’s how they found him, wrapped in sheeting in the shed. Asphyxiated they said.

Maybe he’s flying now.

BB RIP

You silly sausage.
(, Mon 16 Feb 2009, 11:02, 5 replies)
Toys
When I was six I happily sat out in the garden and proceeded to jam the heads of my lego men up my nose.

I managed about eight before I felt a bit woozy.

I went to tell my mum about my achievement. She was not very happy, not very happy at all, as I had managed to drench the front of my stormtrooper t-shirt in blood and snot. I looked, and I quote my dear old mum: "like you were about to die."

One brief operation later, I remember a nice old man who looked like Obi Wan Kenobi telling me not to do it again.

All went well for a couple of months, then I was back in casualty.

This time I had somehow managed to jam my R2D2 figure up my arse and the legs had come off inside me and were doing all sorts of mischief to my colon.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 15:52, 7 replies)
Water and Electric
It's common sense that water and electric don't mix, which I why I panicked as a 7 year old running around my house having a water fight, when I fired a shitload of water all over one of the light switches.

Instead of just leaving it, I thought it might make my house set on fire, so I put my mouth over the light switch and tried sucking the water out.

Bad move, I shot back to the other side of the room and was curled up in a ball making ewok noises.

Doh.
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 10:17, 1 reply)
Wasp stupidity
One summer our house was being terrorised by wasps. The nest was down at the bottom of the garden and I volunteered to get rid of it. I came up with a plan which involved matches, some newspaper and the tank of petrol we used for the strimmer. Dressed in my wasp-fighting outfit (which consisted of a pair of shorts and my flip-flops), I approached the wasps' nest.

I started by screwing up some newspaper, placing it underneath the wasps nest and lighting it. I then poured petrol onto it.
The fireball was fairly impressive and took the petrol can, the skin on my hands and my eyebrows with it. Within seconds I was surrounded by an angry cloud of flaming wasps. I ran back towards the house with the bastards stinging the fuck out of my bare legs, arms and chest.
I have learned to treat wasps (and petrol) with more respect.

www.b3tards.com/u/04d821dabf7fcbecc84b/flameywaspdoom.jpg
(, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 20:09, 3 replies)
Final Destination
Pea-roasted, so edited for brevity

Back in the day, we went on a school Youth Hostelling trip to the Devil's Punchbowl near Hindhead.

The hostel itself looks exactly like a witch's cottage, and is surrounded by trees at the top of a very steep hill.

Feeling brave and stupid after a day yomping round the local army ranges, trying to set off unexploded flares, our teacher – the excellent Mr Wilkinson – told us to collect wood, so we could all sit round the fire that night and tell dirty stories.

Armed with axes, saws and a huge trolley, we chopped up some wood we had found at the bottom of the hill and dragged it back up to the top.

God knows what got into me, but I took it upon myself to jump into the trolley at the top of the hill with my good friend Mad 'Completely Fucking Mad' Dave, and let gravity do the rest.

It was after about …oooh… five feet that we both sat paralysed with fear, realising that we were going to skittle down the hill, crash into a tree and get killed. Killed TO DEATH.

All kinds of things went through my mind, such as "Will this hurt?", "I'm going to die a virgin", and "I wonder what Trudy looks like in the nudd?", before we hit an exposed root and took off.

"MWAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" Mad Dave shouted.

"MWAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" I replied, as we landed, catching a tree a glancing blow, which, in retrospect, probably saved our lives as we were thrown to (relative) safety.

I found myself ripped to shreds by a holly bush, while Mad Dave ended up a mud-covered wraith as he belly-flopped into the stream at the bottom of the hill.

Then I was sick inna hedge to the cheers of my classmates, and had to wait AGES to have another go.

Full 12" version HERE
(, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 20:33, 3 replies)
God is a Cunt

In church.

Thirteen years old.

Incredibly bored.

Noticed the lady in the pew in front was wearing a scandalously short and flimsy, almost see-thru summer dress. I could see her underwear through the fabric. Everytime she kneeled to pray, for one brief - I would go as far to say spiritual - instant I caught a flash, just a suggestion, of her pert, pale buttocks and a lacy black thong.

Church was suddenly very exciting.

When it came time for communion I turned and tripped over my mum's handbag, twatting my face on the hard wooden pew. I passed out and nearly swallowed my tongue.

God was obviously not pleased with me.

Vengeful cunt, that God fella...
(, Sat 14 Feb 2009, 12:26, 3 replies)
Stony cove rocks................
Not as hard as my head apparently.

Some years ago I was spending a happy day with a few of my thirty-something mates all round Stony cove, a popular scuba training spot in the midlands. With us was my mate Spence, an ex-Marine mountain and arctic warfare specialist. He'd brought along ropes and climbing gear for the afternoon's fun.

And fun it was! Loads of abseiling and rock face scrambling, all done under the supervision of an accredited expert in the field. The last thing we were to learn was "the pendulum". In essence, this manoeuvre sees you at the end of the rope, half-way down the rockface, running/swinging across to find a handhold. I elected to go first.

The first two swings were a bit hesitant so my mate encouraged me in his gruff marine way by calling "RUN YOU MINCING CUNT!"

So I ran.


As fast as my legs could carry me, bearing in mind I'm 60' down a 120' sheer rock face with a deep, cold lake at the bottom, but I sprinted!

Did I mention that I'd elected to do this without a harness? Just a strop, looped round my legs and waist and fastened with a carabiner? Rope looped through a descender? No?

Then read on.

10 yards before the end of my run I realised I was going WAY too fast so, I tried to slow down. Unfortunately the friction between my boots and the rock was even less than that between fresh poodle poo and parquet so my legs flew out in front of me. In accordance with the laws of physics, my head then rushed towards the rock with equal speed. It seemed to take about two hours from my slide to the impact, but imact it did. I blacked out.

My friends watched me hit and they thought at the time it was unsurviveable. Within seconds, one had called the ambulance, two others abseiled down to me and found CP unconcious and gripping the rope like I was pulling Gary Glitter off one of my daughters*.

The ambulance arrived in minutes, by which time I was already at the top, sitting up wondering why my head hurt. At the hospital I was X-rayed to buggery, had all sorts of reflex tests and kept in overnight.

1 bruise. Didn't even break the skin.

I was so proud of my new-found indestructibility, I strutted to the nurses station to get discharged (insert smutty comment here), basking in my superheroness. They gave me back my clothes minus my trousers and grots.

"Where's my trousers and pants, did you have to cut them off me"? I asked, still swaggering a little.

"No, we threw them away 'cos you'd shit yourself" she replied, beaming.




Bugger.


*Original euphemism deleted due to extreme non-PCness
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 17:40, 2 replies)
Valentines Day....
I won't bore you all with a long story, embellishing all the details to the point of obvious fallacy. What I will do is give you a blow by blow account of what happened to make it the most unsuccessful but memorable valentines day in a long time.

1) Wake up and I suprise her with a teddy and lovely red rose.

2) Make her breakfast in bed and have a little 'cuddle'

3) Give her a card and a box of choccies

4) Enjoyed each others company for the day, watching films cuddled up on the sofa, went for a lovely walk as the sun was out for a couple of minutes.

5) Took her out for a nice, expensive, meal which was VERY romantic

6) Got back home and I wanted a shower

Now - this is where things start to go horribly wrong.....

7) I am showering and she is sat talking to me / watching me lather up. We dont have an attachment to clip to the wall so have to hold the shower head and kinda rinse everywhere.

8) I squeeze out a fart - only it wasn't just a fart I squeezed out.

9) She notices the micro poo and gags and leaves. I laugh hysterically, out of hilarity and embaressment.

10) I coax her back in to the bathroom when I have cleared away the mess - slightly more aware that the night of passion was going to be a lot less likely.

11) I slip over in the bath, dropping the shower head and getting her RIGHT IN THE BLOODY EYES with a high pressure jet of water.

12) She gets angry now and storms off.

13) I don't get any sex and nearly get stabbed with a toothbrush.

Bollocks.
(, Mon 16 Feb 2009, 16:47, 8 replies)
Not sure if this counts
Because it wasn't the fault of the person it happened to, but it'd certainly be a ridiculous reason to die.



My old maths teacher used to tell a few stories concerning the time he spent in the navy, and this one stuck in my mind:


Every so often (he said), the top brass would decide that things were getting a little slack below decks, and would decide an excercise was in order. This story concerns a gunnery excercise.

My teacher was a radar technician. His job was to cabilbrate the radar readings so that the guns would focus their fire onto one specific target.

(To go back a bit, I should describe the nature of this particular excercise. A small aircraft was detailed to fly by the ship several times, while trailing a large and radar-reflective target on a long wire behind it. It was this that the guns would aim at).

Unfortunately, my teacher was rather good at his job. So were all the other technicians.

So good, in fact, that the radar-guided guns didn't just register the target they were supposed to. They registered the wire it was attached to as well.

I should also point out here that the gun control rooms were deep in the ship - they couldn't see the plane or hear the pilot. This will become important shortly.

The shells from the guns started aiming at the wire. Slowly, slowly, slowly, they got closer toward the plane towing the target. When the pilot realised this, he radioed the ship to ask them to stop it before he was shot out of the sky by the guns (incidentally naval guns are fucking big - it dosen't take more than a few hits to take out a light aircraft so the pilot's concern is considerable by this point).

It was then that the second problem became apparent. You see, the command to cease fire is not quite that simple. There are procedures to be followed. For a start you never use the word "fire". That is reserved for the more serious occurance of something combusting onboard ship. The command used in this case is "shoot". To be certain that what you hear is what was meant, the command must be given clearly (by a person with the appropriate authority) three times. The relevant command here would be "stop shooting, stop shooting, stop shooting".

As I say, here is where the second problem came into play.

The chief petty officer in charge of this excercise had a stammer.

The more serious the situation with the plane got, the harder the officer tried to say the necessary words. And the more he stammered.

I'm informed that the pilot was hysterical, the officer was nearly unconscious and the shells were a few feet from the plane when someone higher up the chain of command was finally called in to give the order to stop...
(, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 2:27, 4 replies)
Daegu subway fire
I was scared to death and people were dying around me.

I honestly thought I was going to die as well.

I lived in the Korean city of Daegu at the time and I was in a subway train going to work. I worked in a school downtown teaching English.

On that day, some utter nutjob brought some gasoline or something onto the subway train and set it alight. That train burned and virtually everyone died on it. I was on a second train behind it. My train pulled up next to the burning train and just stopped. Our train started to catch fire. I didn’t see then, but later found out that the driver of our train had legged it taking his train key with him. Without the key, all the doors were sealed shut. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face because of the smoke. I fell to the floor and got my white pollution mask out of my pocket to put on.

It didn’t feel any better though.

I had such a headache that I just passed out. I woke up with someone dragging me onto the platform. The smoke was just as thick but the station was locked down and we all couldn’t get out. Just as I felt I was going asleep again, I was dragged out by a fireman to an exit and something caught my eye.

It was the Dunkin' Donuts shop that was the reason why I had taken the subway and not got a taxi that day even though I was late for work.

Anyway, I was in a Korean hospital for a few weeks with smoke inhalation damage. I was lucky though as almost 200 people died at the station that day.

Curse my greed for Boston Creams and strong coffee.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daegu_subway_fire
(, Fri 13 Feb 2009, 15:34, 3 replies)
Flip-flops of DEATH
Anyone who met me around 18 months ago would be forgiven for thinking I would shuffle off this mortal coil earlier than most, due to my own stupidity/misfortune. I am still alive, however, and those unlucky times behind me. But I will share them now in the spirit of The Question.

My family hadn’t taken a holiday together in a long time – since I was about 14 – mostly due to the stress and arguing and crying that inevitably overshadowed any fun. But hey, we’d all grown up, right? My sister and I in our twenties and Daddy much mellowed by his retirement, so when he suggested a canal boat trip, we jumped at the chance – ‘free holiday- wooo!’. Well, anyone that’s been on a canal boat will understand that when it says four berth, it really means two. Or possibly one fat one. It certainly does not mean the boat can adequately house four fully grown adults for a whole week.

As a result of this confinement, tensions were frayed. It was the one hot week we had the whole summer and I couldn’t face sitting with my mum and sister, grouchy and uncomfortable, in the hot, noisy bowels of the boat... Father was taking up the outside platform while he merrily steered us along the sleepy canals of middle England – oblivious to the familial unrest. This left me with the roof. Fine with me, I’m pretty agile, and so it was that I sat up there and hopped down whenever a low bridge was encountered. On the Saturday, my sisters birthday, in fact and we had planned to moor up somewhere lovely for drinking and dinner. There were only a couple of days left to go and we intended to make the best of it.

There I am, up on the roof and Daddy says, “oop, bridge coming” so down I hop. Only, this time, I am wearing the flip-flops of DEATH. My toes don’t quite grip the top step and I plunge down into the cabin, feet first, face down, thunk thunk thunk on my ribs. I can only imagine what this looked like to my mum and sister calmly reading - it makes me chuckle. I swayed upright, waving away their concerned advances. What a hero I am! Oh wait, what’s this? I can’t breathe- try again? nope. Oh dear. This is where my conscious self leaves the story- but I am reliably informed my eyes rolled back in my head and I keeled over and hit the deck. Hard. (Can you call the inside of a boat the deck? hmmm).

Being on a canal boat in the middle of nowhere makes calling an ambulance a bit of a challenge- while Daddy steered the boat close to the bank, sis made a gallant leap into the mass of nettles, clutching all the mobiles in the hope that one might have reception if she ran up and down a bit. Meanwhile, Mummy realizes I am still not breathing and first aid refresher course ringing in her ears, goes for a bit of mouth-to-mouth. Oo-er. Odd thing was, my jaw was firmly seized shut. Ever the lateral thinker, she proceeds to blow up my nose. Unorthadox maybe, but quite effective.
The next think I remember is being mildy pissed off that they were waking me up and who the hell was tolling those bells so damned loudly?! Anyway, a short trip to hospital and some strong painkillers later, I return basically unscathed and by the evening we were laughing about it in the pub. I had been a bit concerned about my mental faculties considering how long I wasn’t breathing for (a couple of minutes I think) but a few goes on the quiz machine proved I hadn’t descended into total monginess. Hurrah! Not the best birthday present for my sister, along with the sunburn and insect bites, regular waterway hazards, she broke out in ridiculous hives from the stress of thinking I was dead. Aaaww.
I couldn’t help but think Mummy suspected a childish bid for attention on a siblings birthday, but the disaster that occurred on my birthday, but a month later, proved I was just a gimp.

Will post if I have time before the question closes…
(, Thu 19 Feb 2009, 8:52, 10 replies)
The Yodelling Kettle
In 1970 a young and fresh-faced Vambo began working in the laboratory at a cardboard mill. My duties (as well as testing cardboard and industrial effluent) included making the tea. Now the kettle in the laboratory was old and slow (a bit like our boss the curmudgeonly Dr Murdoch) and this meant that the kettle had to be filled and plugged in at 9.30 in order to get a reasonably warm cuppa.

When the kettle finally died, a suitable sum was extracted from petty cash and a new kettle purchased. The new kettle was chrome and domed - rather like the top of Dalek. The kettle had no lid and was filled via the spout that had lines on the back plate that indicated how full it was. The new kettle was a wonder to behold! It boiled in a minute or so and its chrome dome was lovingly polished by the womenfolk and it was admired by all.

Disaster struck in the form of Pete. Pete was another Laboratory Assistant and whilst getting off the lab work bench he was sitting on, managed to knock the cord of the chrome wonder. The kettle slid to the end of the workbench where it teetered for a second before landing on the concrete floor. A mortified Pete picked up the kettle and was horrified to see a large dent. Gladys and Marilyn the self appointed polishers of the chrome dome were upset and moaned and shouted at Pete for despoiling their precious!

Pete told me he was going to fix the kettle. “Great!” I said “How?” Pete replied "It’s easy I’ll use pressure to push it out from inside!”.
A few days later and we have the lab to ourselves at lunchtime. Pete measures the kettle’s spout and proceeds to carve a large cork. It was an exact fit. As mentioned the kettle had no lid and was filled via the spout so Pete figured part filling the kettle and blocking the spout would produce sufficient pressure to push out the dent when it boiled.

After filling the kettle, ramming the cork tightly home and winding a few turns of tape around the spout Pete switched on. I had a kind of bad feeling about this and retired to a safe distance, Pete however stood close by so that he could switch off when the dent popped out.

Minutes ticked by and suddenly “WHAM” and the cord shot out and snaked across the bench. A horrid “Yueeergh” kind of noise erupted from the kettle closely followed by a resounding “POP” as the cork flew out of the spout and hit the far side of the lab. A huge jet of steam shot out of the kettle, hit the ceiling, condensed and fell as rain over the workbenches. At the same time the kettle shot backwards at an amazing speed and clobbered Pete fair and square in the bollocks!!!

Apart from the sore ‘nads Pete also had a burn or two on his legs and worst of all the chrome kettle acquired another dent!!
(, Tue 17 Feb 2009, 17:35, Reply)
I’m Probably A Candidate
In the last year I decided to take my photography a little more seriously. I could of decided on something fairly sedate such as landscapes but having being interested in architecture I found myself taking pictures of old buildings. Originally it was mostly exterior shots of abandoned buildings but soon curiosity got the better of me and I started venturing inside them.

Numerous dangers are there from asbestos to collapsing floors; I’ve fallen though a few and who knows what’s lining my lungs these days. Add to that the need to take something different I’ve found myself standing on roof tops, climbing old towers, climbing scaffolds in the dark and eventually climbing cranes at night because the view is the best you’ll find. Future projects involve live metro tunnels and maybe a storm drain or two.

Still when you get views like this maybe it’s worth the risk….

High Times
(, Mon 16 Feb 2009, 16:02, 12 replies)

This question is now closed.

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