Reverse cigarette
How many of you have tried lighting a cigarette with the wrong end in your mouth when pissed?

Extra points for smoking a fair portion before realising.

First post, toot! Be still my beating cherry etc. Hi everyone!
(bacontrout got ska, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 3:06, 7 replies)

I blame 'Aliens'
I was in the Scouts when I was a teenager. My parents had encouraged me to do it, probably hoping I'd pick up some useful skills, like being able to tie two bits of wood together or build a shelter in the wilderness, in case I was ever too fucking stupid to bring a tent.

It was actually a good laugh - messing around with your mates in a church hall on a Friday night, playing wonderfully violent games like British Bulldog ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Bulldogs_%28game%29 ) or Red Rover ( en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_Rover ). There would be occasional camping trips, which would usually turn into massive drinking sessions.

The troup also owned a hut in the forest, known as 'The Bothy.' One weekend, me and a few mates decide to book the Bothy for a camping trip. For 'camping trip', read 'debauched weekend of drink and drugs.' We took 6 crates of beer (24 cans in each), a bottle of whisky and a half ounce of dope. This was between five of us.

Unfortunately, it was the middle of October, and it rained most of the weekend, leaving us confined to the hut. We passed the time like normal teenagers - drinking can after can of beer, rolling joints and arguing about things like whether a metal suit of armour would be useful in a zombie invasion, or whether 'stick insect man' would make a good superhero.

We were sitting around the table drinking, talking shit, while Douglas tended the fire. Douglas was a proper Scout - he even had badges, for things like fire-making, cooking, first aid and woodmanship. The rest of us didn't give a fuck, but Douglas really seemed to get something out of Scouts. I wouldn't be at all surprised to find he's joined the army now.

Anyway, Douglas had left his swiss army knife on the table, and the conversation turned to the scene in 'Aliens' where Bishop, the android, starts doing the knife trick ( www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZqTWOgAJ3g ). I, being full of drink, bravado and the desire to impress my friends, boasted that it looked easy, and that I could do it no problem. Of course this was immediately challenged, so, in the interests of saving face I picked up the knife, flicked out the blade and splayed my hand on the table.

I started slowly, picking my way between my fingers with care. After I completed my first pass and back, I began to feel more confident. Gradually, I increased the tempo, to the sound of my mates clapping and egging me on. It built up faster and faster, and the adrenaline kicked through me. It felt amazing - I closed my eyes briefly to savour the feeling.

Big mistake - the knife came down slightly to the left, skewering the ring finger on my left hand just above the knuckle. The entire room froze - we all stared at the knife embedded in my finger, as the blood began to seep around the blade and onto the table. My mate Tom broke the silence with "That never happened in Aliens."

Luckily, Douglas had brought his first aid kit (the guy was scarily organised - the kind of guy who keeps a detailed diary and organises his sock drawer) and he soon had my finger bandaged up. The amount of booze I had consumed meant I didn't feel any pain, but it hurt like fuck in the morning. I've still got a slight scar, and I still feel like a fucking idiot when I think about it.

Remember kids - drink and knifes don't mix.

Here endeth the lesson



P.S I would apologise for length, but you've got to be used to it by now
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 2:58, 2 replies)

26 As requested by clumsyeloquence
This one is not funny at all. But it is the age I decided to let one of my clients "invest" in mine and a freinds joint business. Given the fact he had run one of the largest businesses in Australia in our industry we gave him the management position whilst we all grew the business to a multi million $ company in under 18 months.
Result: 2 years later I had lost everything I owned and worked for due to his syphoning funds out of our company to prop up his own personal business. (14 months since this event and the detectives finally have time to invesigate this properly. Submitting formal statements on Sunday)

Never have business partners. If you do.... REGULARLY AUDIT ACCOUNTS NO MATTER HOW BUSY YOU ARE!

EDIT: Also fucked the other business partners ex wife that year (5 years since divorce). We were all freinds and I used to attend many bbq's at her house with him and his kids. Admitedly, during my single phase he said "Why dont you give [insert x's name here] a go? She likes younger men" Also to my credit I never pursued it until one fateful night I ended up at her daughters place with her having to share a lounge for the night (Turns out she had this situation planned). Fucked her for weeks on end and had trouble looking my mate in the eye. Even tried telling him once but he would not believe me. It wasnt until a year or so later that his daughter told him that she heard us going for it that he knew for sure. Funnily enough we are still mates*
*well we still do alot of business together anyway.
( Sir Pigeon Nipples Did you sit in some sugar?, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 2:58, 2 replies)

21: As requested by swifty.....
At the age of 21 I was always on/off again with the mother of my children and left in an emo state every time we split up no matter who dumped who.
Cue one remorseful drinking sessions with my mates at the pub. One of them was reasonably sober enough to drive us home to get changed into more suitable clothes for the evening ahead*
I got dropped off at home and said I might stay in (emo heartbroken fuck right here) (not that I am a FUCKING EMO!) Any way as I am saying my goodbyes from the passengers side of the car I hear the driver whisper something. Cue another one fo my mates nicking the keys limply hanging out of my pissed right hand. The words "If you want your keys you know where to find us!" coming out of the vehicle that was now rolling up the street (Nice V8 too I must add). Cunts!

I knew that i could climb in through the bathroom window that was above head height as I have done many times before, but decided that I would not in my pissed state and resort to the back flat insead.

The phone rings on the house line. Soon as I hear it I am sure it is the then ex trying to call. I promptly lift off the screen and lift myself up into the window only to realise that I used to keep a couple of my old school double sided razor blades on the window sill.

Result: 2" gash into the palm of my hand. & hour wait at one hospital before getting the shits and going home again. Sewn up the next morning at another hospital with a doctor absoloutely baffled as to how I managed to avoid cutting tendons. (will upload current 8yo scar soon)

*LIES! - He was as pissed as a maggot eating an alcoholics dead flesh.
Edit: It was my mates calling to see if I was coming to the pub. Cunts!
( Sir Pigeon Nipples Did you sit in some sugar?, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 2:43, Reply)

Beer + Laptop
Working late one night on my laptop doing web updates (yes geeky, but it pays) I decided that all work was done other than tinkering.

Cracked open a beer.

Noticed something badly wrong with a site, knocked over beer.

1600 quid laptop drinks the beer.

It didn't reboot.

Felt very stupid for two entire days until the insurance payment delivered me a brand new top of the range replacement.

Dumb but with a good outcome.
(Opanoid Look sweats dripping off them, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:55, 4 replies)

Barbados
.
About ten years ago I was on holiday in Barbados when we got hit by the tail-end of a hurricane.

Now I love extreme weather - especially storms. I love walking about during massive thunderstorms or going for a walk on the beach during gales. I just like to feel humbled by natures power and majesty.

So, as this storm approached, I started to get pissed with a few other tourists. And, by the time the full fury of the storm was upon us, I was pissed as a judge. So I decided that I wanted to not only see the hurricane, but *experience* it as well. So I jumped into the swimming pool with a bottle of wine.

So there I was, drunk, floating with my arse in the middle of a life belt swigging on a bottle of wine. And the rain was pelting down. Raindrops as big as my fist and the wind was blowing me all over the swimming pool. I was giggling like a loon and having the time of my life.

And then the coconuts started to come loose from the trees around me and splatter into the water like mortar rounds.

"Hmmm" thinks me. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all"

So, still clutching my bottle of wine, I abandoned my floating post and started swimming for the edge of the pool. About 6 foot from the edge, just as I thought I was home and dry, a fucking coconut got me full on the back. Even though it was cushioned by the water, and even though it was covered by a thick husk, it still felt like my spine had been broken.

The force knocked me under the water and winded me. I couldn't breath and the pain was simply astounding. I remember thinking what a stupid way to die. Killed by a bloody coconut.

As it turned out though I managed to surface and drag myself that last few feet and staggered out of the pool and into my room. Where my girlfriend looked at me and said:

"You're a stupid tit!"

So much for sympathy.

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:54, 3 replies)

Just gaz me with a number between 17 - 29 (y.o) or I will end up clogging this board with my replies.
Incidents prior to those years include:
2y.o. (Too young to remember this one, but has been told to me and freinds by my mother many times over the years) Deciding it was a good idea to run infront of the older kids playing on swings at the park.
Result: Broken nose and Black eyes.

2y.o. (my earliest memory) deciding that sliding down the stairs on my belly at my parents 2 storey house in Nottingham was a better way of getting down as opposed to walking.
Result: Smashed up face on telephone table.

Skip a few years to 6y.o. Staying in germany with relatives...
Deciding that I should investigete what is within the socket that would normally house a light bulb on a twin wall light fitting.
Result: Thrown off bed on to arse and running out to mum and my great aunt and uncle who just laughed (WW2 does thise things to a German cross Polish family).

7y.o. Deciding that I could navigate the area between a car and a low stone wall where we had been told not to ride.
Result: 5 stitches in top lip (pretty much had 1/2 my lip hanging from my face)

8y.o. Mum comes along for her first bike ride with me around the neighbouhood. I choose to take her up one of the steepest hills and show her my elite bike riding skills down. My thong (flip flop for merkins) falls off. I turn head and handle bars at same time. I bite the coarse tarmac.
Result: 1/2 detatched lip again, this time requiring 7 stitches (Mum was so proud as I did not cry one bit as they picked out pebbles and sewn me up. Probably due to the fact I had torn it in the same place a year prior)

10y.o. Shcool BBQ where you had to bring your own utensils.
Walking home with nice full belly swinging the plastic bag that house all the utensils over my left and right shoulder repeatedly.
Result: Steak knife in shoulder blade.
Never bothered mentioning this one to mum as I knew I was being a dick. It healed OK over time.

Plenty more to tell that get alot worse over the years. If you want to hear it, Just gaz & I'll post.
( Sir Pigeon Nipples Did you sit in some sugar?, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:41, Reply)

How did I forget this one?
I once managed to spill a drink all over the laptop my mum had been given off the school she works at to do her planning etc and completely knackered it, wouldn't work AT ALL.

Best bit is I had to wait til the next morning to tell her what had happened, the next morning being her birthday.
(lei, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:37, Reply)

Trusted a 'mate' who I knew was a twat...
Me and the lads used to drive down to our local country park to just hang around bored. We used to variously play footie, lark around in general, and sit on the back of the car smoking joints.

One of my mates, J, used to sometimes get into the car and drive it at an infuriatingly slow pace backwards and forwards over a speed bumps to see how long it would take for us to get annoyed and jump off.

Another 'mate', T, was a complete twat - never knew/cared when he'd gone to far and was generally being annoying for his own amusement, rather than for everyone's amusement, ie, for a laugh, as J was. He also, as if to drive home the point, possesed the world's most shit-eatingest shit-eating grin you've ever seen. Even if you didn't know he was a twat, you'd still want to punch him in the face if he pulled it. I never understood why the others didn't care about this, but hey ho, they didn't, so he used to hang around with us too.

One day T gets into the car and starts to drive, a little faster than J ever did, with three of us on the back, J included. Knowing T was a twat, I wanted to get off, but thought to myself "no, even he wouldn't be so much of a twat that he'll go any faster, and this is fine".

Wrong. He then speeds up a bit, and it's a little too fast to be jumping off without risking falling over. "He'll stop in a minute, then we'll kick his arse" me and J said as we went over a speed bump.

He then steps it up a notch, and me and J are kicking ourselves for not jumping when we might have fallen over, because if we jump now we'll definitely go arse over tit. We're alternately telling each other we're gonna kick his arse when he stops and shouting the same thing at him.

Finally we run out of straight road. "He has to stop now" we think, "even T... blah blah", you get the picture. He didn't. He boots it as he jerks the car around the corner, and we're hanging on by fuck-knows-what for as long as we can. Finally I can't hold on, slide off sideways and knock J off balance, who falls off too. I'm sliding across gravel-covered tarmac*, and J has landed on top of me which ensures that I don't roll, but scrape across with his additional weight grinding me into it.

T then stops, gets out and is chased by an effing, blinding and see-you-next-tuesdaying J. I'm getting up and surveying the damage - Nasty road rash in various places, most notably one entire side of my forearm, down to whatever layer it is that oozes clear stuff and spots of blood for days apparently, as that's what it did. I also appeared to be missing the skin on the boney bit of my wrist, and unable to move it.

I look up, and T is there wearing his shit-eating grin while I'm unable to beat him senseless. The guy's a twat (I may not have mentioned this).

Eventually we get to A&E where I discover the treatment for road-rash is to remove the lumps of gravel with a pair of tweezers. They can't numb it for fuck-knows-what-reason, and it hurts like hell. They then rub an anti-inflamatory and anti-septic gel into it. With a toothbrush. A fucking toothbrush, for fuck's sake. What's wrong with these people?**

I didn't move that wrist again for a week when the scab formed - the slightest movement would tear it and hurt like a bitch all day. When it finally came off it was almost a centimetre thick. This was over 10 years ago now, I've barely seen T since, and I'd still probably kill the bastard given half a chance. I still have the scars, yay! One white patch on my wrist, and a nice round shape on my forearm that's invisible in the winter, but tans less in the summer :)

T's a twat. Twat, twat, twat, twat, twat. The stupid thing is, I've always known he was a twat. I have no idea why I didn't just jump off the minute he went near the driver's door. That was exactly the kind of thing he'd do.

(Length: We guessed we'd slid for about 3 or 4 metres before we started to roll, but who knows. I wasn't really in the mood for measuring the length of the streak of peeled skin)

* Why? It's tarmac OR gravel, not both. This was fine-grained gravel, laid thick enough that it couldn't have been anything but deliberate. What possible purpose could having both serve, other than to ensure that people who are thrown from cars get the full cheese-grating effect? Fuckers.

** Only kidding! I'm sure there's a good reason, and yes, I'm well aware that I'm a complete girl about this kind of thing. But at least I don't cry.

*Edit: Christ on a bike! Many apologies for length, I had no idea I'd typed for that long :)*
(misanthrope is so adjective he's verbing nouns!, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:18, 2 replies)

Impersonating Elvis
Back in about March this year a note went round my office announcing a Charity Star In Their Eyes competition. Me and a mate thought it would be a 'laugh' to do The Proclaimers 500 Miles song. However as the night neared we hadn't practiced at all and fearing a total balls-up, we decided to tell the guy organising it. By this time he'd gone to the length of hiring a local theatre and sold god knows how many tickets to a baying crowd of co-workers and their families (about 300 in total) and acts were pulling out in their droves. He was down to 7 acts. In a moment of blind charity myself, I said I COULD possibly do something on my own. He didn't attempt to talk me out of it and I stood there calling myself a symathetic twat. So anyway, about a week later I find myself metaphorically soiling myself, standing behind a stage curtain, underneath a small bridge of balloons with dry ice smoke pouring out onto a stage, dressed up as Elvis and about to sing Guitar Man to a crowd of people, most of whom I didn't know but a lot of whom I did. I remember standing there and couldn't for the life of me put together the series of bad decisions that had led me to be in such a situation. Easily the dumbest thing i've done. Oh apart from getting busted for drink driving, shagging my boss's missus, drinking a whole bottle of Tequila in one night and a few other isolated events.
( Fray Brentos *mega-belms*, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:02, Reply)

For my 14th or 15th birthday (or thereabouts)
my parents bought me a swiss army knife. Can you see where this story is headed...? :)

As a young fella my model aeroplane construction technique was less than elegant. Many of my models had large blobs of glue dried in strange places. So the teenage brain decides he's going to remove the blobs and tidy up his models using his fabbo new knife.

Five minutes later... "Mum....." followed by a visit to the doctor's surgery and 7 stitches (total) on the inside of the first knuckle across three fingers on my left hand.
( Ratsta, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 1:01, Reply)

TheManofScience reminds me....
copiously drinking everything i could get my hands on all day at a wedding. Feeling the need to barf badly i ran to the bogs. If the cleaners ever managed to get the red tinge off the nice white wall tiles i'll never know, cos i couldnt. I felt guilty about some low paid slob having to deal with this shit by spending days with chemicals to remove what i worked out to be black currant juice. My tipple of the time was rum and black...(hmmm, might dig the bottle out).

Anyway, dumb to drink that much i guess, and to mix them the way i did.(was a damn good day though, and i should have nailed the woman who got married when i had the chance to....fucksox, methinks)

Dont do it kids. Learn by my our mistakes. Oh sod it, go on then, fuck off out there and do it anyway.....your mothers and fathers will pick you up and clean you up. Just like ours did....
(i AM that masked man Book him Tonto, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:49, Reply)

Mini Motorbike
I had one of those little mini motorbike things, for their size they were very nippy, could hit about 45mph on a long stretch, and you looked like an absolute pilloc riding it. Now i have a friend who is very accident prone, and i let him have a go on it. We took it to this long straight stretch of tarmac which was empty every day apart from dog-walkers in the morning so that was where we would always ride it. As soon as he got on the bike he pulled the throttle right back and attempted to go as fast as possible as soon as possible.

The tricky bit is there's a large speedbump in the road and we would overcome this on the little bike by squeezing through a gap in the middle of the speedbump where it was just flat road. He attempted to fly through this eye-of-the-needle at 40mph and as he did he clipped his shoe and the bike began to wobble which he then lost control of and fell off. He rolled, not on his side, but head-over-heels forwards for a good 10 feet before crumpling to a stop. He didnt have any skin at all on his forearms, just red tissue where the tarmac had grated it all off.

EDIT: Another story involving a mini-bike

My friend had a mini-bike which was like a chopper. It was slightly bigger and capable of going a bit faster than mine. So we took it to this uneven road full of potholes and gravel and decided to tow my friend from the back of it while he stood on a skateboard, he's never stood on a skateboard in his life.

All was going well until we reached about 35mph and we hit a pothole, the bike handled it, my friend on the skateboard didnt and he fell off.

Well he didnt exactly fall off, he was still holding onto my shoulder being dragged along the rough road, it was the equivalent of being dragged across a cheese-grater. Eventually he let go and rolled to a stop and we took his battered body home to the bathroom to inspect his wounds.

He was covered in grazes and deep gashes, he had an extra asrehole carved into his back. We set about cleaning the wounds with disinfectant, i sprayed some Lynx into his back-arse and he screamed like a woman. Due to our lack of bandage we covered his wounds with some sellotape and toilet paper and he was good to go. Even more pain the next day when the toilet paper had healed into his scabs.
(Pimp my Clown is going back to the future on, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:44, 1 reply)

my dad said....
....here hold this.

I was 3 or 4. I held it.

What i didnt know was that he wanted to see if a spark was coming through the spark lead to the spark plug on one of those old suffolk punch lawn mowers.

So, when dear ole dad cranked the mower over, i got 3 or 4 belts up me arm that nearly broke my elbow.

My dads excuse? Well years later when we were "laughing" about it, he said that as it was a bright sunny day, he couldnt see the spark when he earthed the lead out to the mower body. A young child jumping up and down can evidently be clearly seen on a bright sunny day though!

Good old dad, wouldnt swap him for the world, but i guess it was a dumb thing to do. Not him doing that to me, but me holding onto the lead in the first place!

I have some catching up to do with my own kids now...

Length? I jumped about 12 inches as i recall.....
(i AM that masked man Book him Tonto, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:36, 3 replies)

life
i got born
(bernards bitch don't want to be known for a oneliner, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:24, 3 replies)

what an interesting pattern
In the first year of my degree I spent most of my time burning fabrics to see what they looked like.

One day I decided that a soldering iron would be a good implement to use. That went well until i picked up the soldering iron by the wrong end.

The pain was bearable until I got home. After my thumb and forefinger swelled up to monsterous blistery proportions I discovered I had an interesting polka dot pattern burnt into my thumb.

Being petrified of hospitals I decided that the best thing to do was to keep it under cold water for as long as possible. This lead to me walking to boots in the city centre with my fingers in a cup of water.

After buying savlon, dressings and freeze gel i went home and spent the next several days applying all three until the swelling went down. Luckily all went well other than having no fingerprints for a week or two.
(beckybuttons, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:17, 1 reply)

Cant believe I´m telng you this
8 or so years ago, when I was in my first "relationship" or whatever you call two horny teenagers having frequent sex (mostly with eachother). One late night I decided to shave my manly parts. A thing I did once in a while to please my then girlfriend.

THis day however, I didnt stop there. I found out that my balls where looking pretty good freshly shaven, and the feeling of smooth skin was also pretty soothing.

So... Push comes to shove, I cover my arse in shavingfoam and start swinging the razor to get a fresh, hairless sexy ass! Works like a charm, for about 1 day...

Well shaved hair tends to grow out, short hair tends to be a bit sharp and hard, buttocks tends to rub against eachother.

to top it off, my then gf laughed at me and I got to walk around like a jockey for the good part of two weeks.

You get the picture, sorry for putting it in your heads.
(Spng, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:17, Reply)

I'm A Firestarter.
.
Well, actually, I'm a firebreather. It's a skill I picked up in my miss-spent youth along with juggling and knife-throwing. And this story isn’t about the stupidest thing I've done, it's the stupidest thing a random passer-by done.

I was in Alnwick, Northumberland and was doing a fire-breathing show outside a pub called The Dirty Bottles - not it's real name but it's what it's called as it has some dirty bottles on display in the window. They haven't been moved since the guy who was cleaning them dropped dead 150 years ago.

Anyway, I'm wandering. Old age will do that to you. I can remember when it was all fields 'round here. Now where was I? Oh aye - The Dirty Bottles.

So there I was with a wine bottle full of paraffin, giving it the old dragon impression. Huge balls of flames were gouting down the street and the crowd were clapping and cheering. Then out of the darkness comes a local hard man. Coming up to me he slurred:

"Wassas you're drinking?"

"Paraffin mate - you wouldn't like it" I said

"Gissa drink" he slurred

"It's paraffin mate - it's for firebreathing. You really wouldn't like it" I insisted

"It looks like powerful stuff - gissa drink" he growled

Well I tried. So I gave him the bottle and he took a couple of really big swallows.

"Glug-Glug"

Then he looked at me with a disgusted expression on his face.

"Man, that's fucking awful"

And off he weaved up the street.

Now drinking paraffin has a rather nasty side-effect. It coats the insides of the intestines with a thin film of oil. A thin film that won't let any water pass through. So for at least the next 24 hours he was going to be shitting for Britain. Anything in his system now, or put in over the next day, was going to come out again. And considerably faster than it went in.

Oh - and for the people who think I'm bull-shitting?



You Tube

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:14, 2 replies)

Not me, but my girlfriend
A wee while ago, she bought her first car, and she smokes like a chimney.

She spent ages doing it up, turning her cousin's hashmobile into Penelope Pitstop's pimpmobile - all garish red & silver mats, seatcovers etc. - very bad taste, but she put a helluva lot of effort into it.

I said to her: "You're not going to smoke in it, are you?"

She said (indignantly, and in all seriousness): "Of course not!!! I never smoked on my motorbike - did I?"

Bless :)
(geedubya, Fri 21 Dec 2007, 0:12, Reply)

Breaking my face.
I'm epileptic. Before I have a seizure, I get what is known as an "aura"--it's the beginning of the fit, but I'm still conscious. Some people smell weird things, some people have visions, other people act strangely. Me, I hear a sound that's a little bit like a high pitched, ongoing electrical beep.

The first time this happened, I was in bed, and I heard the noise. Slightly surprised, I got up to look around for the source of this sound--promptly began to properly have an eppy-flid-attack and fell over and practically brained myself on the bedside table.

Flash forward a few years. This high pitched noise followed by massive spaz is now--I wouldn't say frequent, but it's happened and I know what's going on. I hear the beep. I begin to look for it. I break my face on the bedside table.

Another time, it happened when I was on my laptop, lying on my bed. "Hmm," thinks I, "I'm going to have a fit. I'd better put my laptop somewhere safe, lest I break it in my violent spazzing." I vastly overestimate time between bleepy noise and loss of consciousness. Wake up on floor with my nose bleeding all over my broken laptop.

Then there was the time I flew into a panic, expecting onset of seizure--I had heard a lorry reversing.
( Queen of Cheesecake, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:52, 2 replies)

Blood bath.
When at school I noticed a small red dot under the skin of one of my fingers. Curious and slightly bored I began picking at it removing the top skin layer but nothing else came of it.

Lessons went by and I picked and picked and picked until I finally got to the little red dot and scratched it off. Big mistake. It must've been directly attached to a vein or something, blood pissed out all over my hand.

In the toilets, panicking I stood with my hand under a tap. All this succeeded in doing was getting blood on the sink.Being about 8 years old I cried loudly. A teacher came in and handed me a plaster which was promptly soaked through in a matter of seconds.

I don't remember how it stopped in the end. I think eventually all the blood soaked into the plaster had clogged it up. I still look at the scar on my finger and think how stupid I was to pick at that little full-stop shaped red mark. I still don't know what the hell it was. All I know is if I saw another one today some 18 years later I'd pick at it again, this time for the lulz.
(chakaflange, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:47, 2 replies)

I drank
nail varnish remover in my sleep.

I awoke to a nasty taste and a nearly empty bottle of Boots best in my hand. Cue rainbow yawning the whole night.

The next day people near me said they could smell paint stripper somewhere. I was only brave enough to tell a small handful that the smell was actually my breath.

*shame*
(Stegosaurus Shaped Pencil Top, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:44, 3 replies)

Hitting my own hand with an axe...
... that was pretty stupid. Something in my tiny brain really should have told me that holding the log I was trying to split was a bad plan...
( Beastie is doing science with his arse, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:34, Reply)

Not me, but... someone.
I once had a flat on Cleethorpes seafront that I shared with a family of slugs. On one occasion I heard a terrific banging coming from the front of the premises (my flat was behind a stamp shop or something) and went round the front to see what was going on.

A shirtless, drunk skinhead had kicked in the upper half glass pane of the front door and was attempting to gain entry. Instead of carefully removing all of the broken glass and stepping through one leg at a time, he had both feet on the wooden crossbar and was perched in the busted-out frame.

Where he got stuck. On the shards of glass he hadn't removed. The same shards that were now stuck in his back, pinning him quite effectively.

Turns out he was also busting for a piss, and he promptly relieved himself there and then, with half the nightlife of Cleethorpes looking on in interest.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he then fell inside, landing in a puddle of his own piss and blood, just as the police rolled up. Understandably, they didn't want to touch him.

The landlord was called and he turned out to be the rent-cheque-stealing pisshead from upstairs. It made my night.
( Biggus Dickus , it was like that when I found it, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:26, Reply)

Drink driving
After a few hours in a nightclub in Goa, I decided it was time to leave. But I'd driven there on a scooter I wasn't licensed to drive.. I'd had a bit to drink too...

Don't get me wrong, I insisted to my girlfriend that we walk back and come and collect the scooter tomorrow, but she assured me that I wasn't too bad and besides it was basically a more or less straight road and we'd be back in ten minutes.

So, here's me driving carefully with her on the back, taking the corners slowly and trying to remember where the three speed bumps where...

So after passing them, I accelerated to about 35mph on the last straight, but up ahead was another bastard speed bump.
Shit, i thought, better slow down... which i did, but unfortunately hit the wrong brake (the front one), which suddenly sent me flying through the air for about two seconds and then suddenly GRINDING across the stone laden road in nothing more than shorts and t-shirt.

My only thought was to protect my head, so my elbows got the worst of the initial impact, then my hip and feet. My girlfriend (luckily?) landed on back subsequently winding me further, and then the scooter landed on my ankles....

After a second or two I pulled myself to my feet, checked on her (she had a graze and was shaken but thank god she was fine), whereas I had almost smashed my elbow to bits (or so it felt like) my left hip was missing some skin, with many bits of gravel and rock embedded into it, my hip bone was very bruised, my t-shirt was covered in blood...

Being a man of determination, I picked up the vehicle (fine apart from a knackered kick stand) and got back on... Needless to say I was in shock, but not in much pain at this point.

I drove us back to our guesthouse, returned the scooter and asked my girlfriend to skin up the fattest joint possible (to ease tha pain)whilst I picked bits of rock from my black and purple hip. My whole leg was battered and I had to trim some skin off my elbow with some scissors.

I covered my wounds with anti-septic and then stitched up the wound and dressed it with bandages.

The next day I was in absolute agony and even worse, I hadn't gauzed the wound, so had to peel off tatters of bandage from my fairly deep wound, but at that point after seeing bombay, i was a little wary of Indian hygeine (stupidly)and decided the best course was to just keep rubbing cream onto it.

After a few days it started weeping pus, but I could still walk (barely) and just generally Ray Mears'd it through the rest of the holiday.

It's fine now, but I'm still too afraid of getting my elbows and hip x-rayed just in case they say 'oh dear'...

Length? : about 12 feet of skin peeling road.

:)
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:23, Reply)

Chopping wood in the dark
Never ever do this while drunk in the cold and dark with a small handaxe.

You will chop wood. You will also remove the tip of the middle finger on your left hand to the first joint. You will think you've just caught your finger.

You will then go indoors to run some cold water over your smarting finger only to find that the end is actually missing.

At this point, it helps if you call the missus and the neighbours to go looking for it in the snow with torches while you phone the ambulance. It won't, of course, be found. So you'll have go to hospital and sit in casualty for two hours until they stitch up the skin over the joint, having first tidied up the jagged end of bone with what looks like a pair of tin-snips.

The next day when the cat finds the missing fingertip and has to be forced to part with it by your better half who then puts it in a matchbox, you will feel a bit queasy. Burying it in the garden will not ease this. The worse bit will be the removing of the stitches from within the big scab covering the end of your finger by a bloke with a scalpel the following week.

Length? Shorter than the fingers either side now like :-)
(Gwawdiwr, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:18, Reply)

Wine, whine, wine, whine
I've been reading through the entries on this week's qotw and one about mixing red and white wine reminded me of just one of my dumbest moments.


A few years back I went with the ex-Mr Chickenlady to visit his brother and wife. The brother is in the army and was based in Germany at the time. While we were staying there was a wine tasting evening in the Officers' Mess so we all decided to go...Bad idea.

We arrived a little late and everyone had already started on the white wines. So in order to catch up we had to down three glasses rather quickly.

'Wine tasting' was probably a bit of a misnomer on this occasion - no posh spit bucket or any cleansing of the palette, no, just neck it...this is the British Army for god's sake, how on earth do you think we won (and lost) an empire?!

Now I have a very, very low tolerance to wine (three glasses and I'm anyone's, and it has been said that four glasses and I'm everyone's....) and after those three to catch up I was passed caring about how the wine tasted.

Three more glasses of white later, out came the red.

I don't drink red wine.

I did that night. Another six glasses.

Then we all went through to the dining room and sat around the long posh table - it was just like the grand dinner parties you see on TV.

Now despite being from a very ordinary background I knew how to behave (ex-convent girl, they taught us all we needed to know about how to net a posh husband). So there I was being a sparkling dinner companion to a major on one side and a captain on the other.

Unfortunately I was being so sparkling that I was holding everyone up because the entire table (around forty) had finished their first course and I was still talking and not eating.

The same happened during the main course...I carried on talking. Loudly.

I was absolutely on form. I was the Belle of the Ball. Rapier-sharp wit, interesting observations, all round amusing company.

The major was enthralled. The captain had become engrossed in conversation with someone else during the main course, but no matter, the major was utterly entranced by me.

We ate a delightful pudding and then the announcement was made that coffee would be taken back in the bar. People got up and began to walk back with their dining companions, each continuing their conversations.

I was halfway through telling the major some hilarious anecdote of mine when he got up and ran into the bar. I can only assume that he had a prior engagement.

I rose in order to follow him but for some strange reason my legs and my stomach decided they would plot against me.

I made it to the ladies just in time.

The dinner was wasted on me.

About an hour later my sister-in-law came to find me.

I couldn't move away from the toilet bowl despite no longer having any lining in my stomach, let alone wine or food.

She supported me out to the car where the ex-Mr Chickenlady and his brother waited. We drove home very slowly, pausing every hundred yards or so for me to vomit out the window.

It was the red wine. Evil stuff.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:18, 4 replies)

My father
A few Christmases ago when I was still living at home, we woke up to lots of lovely snow and ice.

My father, in the throes of some sort of well played mid-life crisis, had recently imported a brand new and rather flash Subaru Impreza at huge expense from Germany or one of those other weird foreign countries where they live on sausages and cabbage. He had also, somewhat misguidedly and against my better judgement, adorned his new baby (the car, not an actual baby, that'd be weird) with gold hubcaps, but we'll gloss over that.

He gleefully suggested that we take the car out on the ice and see what it could do. Being a teenager at the time, whizzing around on the ice in a fast car sounded like a very good idea to me. Still does, in fact.

We jumped into the shiny blue dad-mobile and raced up the little hill near our house, heading for the huge empty carpark of a factory that was closed for the holidays.

The excitement was mounting as we surveyed the expanse of icy freedom in front of us. We were shivering in our seats with anticipation of a high speed Top Gear stylee ice jaunt as we approached the entrance.

We were mere seconds away from glorious frozen father-daughter stunt driving bonding when my dad skidded on the ice and crashed his beloved Subaru into one of the huge concrete blocks flanking the entrance.

I have never felt so deflated, but I expect it was worse for my dad, having royally fucked the front of his brand new toy.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Thu 20 Dec 2007, 23:14, 6 replies)