Don't trouble yourselves clicking 'I Like This!'
I've decided I don't want to win this week's question so don't bother voting for me. Sure it would be nice and all but my priorities have all changed since our Johnny was killed in that underwater explosion. And what with that coming on the heels of my entire family being killed in the yachting/floating zoo accident where Grandma was murdered by an enraged giraffe. Sure, winning this week would give me a reason to keep living, but that's fine, you just go on about your lives, don't worry about me.

P.S. On an unrelated matter, does anyone have a noose I can borrow?
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 13 Oct 2005, 10:05, Reply)

I'm bad, I'm bad and I know it.
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I remember way back in the mid 1980's I had had quite a fair quantity to drink in my local pub and some friends decided to shave half my head and one eyebrow after I had passed out. The following day, I had no alternative but to shave the other half off, which I did.
I decided not to go back to the same pub for a while, at least until my eyebrows had grown back a bit and I had some hair on my head, so that evening I decided to visit a pub I had not been in for sometime. As soon as I walked in, I remembered why. It was full of arseholes. The moment I entered the bar, the chief arsehole, whose name was Neil laid in with the first insult, "Fuck me, look at you, had an argument with a lawn mower?", he snorted followed by a far to loud a laugh to accompany such a pathetic joke. How original I thought. Neil kept on and on and on, insult after insult to the point where I almost decked him until I heard him ask, "..so where did you get it cut then, the council?" He laughed out loud even more and had not noticed that the rest of the bar had spotted that I had begun to get a tad pissed off, and they knew that as an ex special services officer, recently returned from the Falklands War, if I did hit him, it wouldn't be too pretty.
At this point an evil thought came to mind. I turned towards him, I could feel the tension in the air, everyone thought I was going to kick off and it all went very quiet. Neil himself suddenly realised he might be in for some hospital food and he shut up. I staired him right in the face and aseritvely replied, "Well actually, cunt, have you ever heard of chaemotherapy?"
With this he looked as guilty as if he had just run over a child in a stolen 4X4 with big fuck-off bull-bars, and he left the pub very quickly. Everone else went even quieter until I turned around and winked at them and murmered, "Stupid bastard". The place erupted with laughter and nothing more was said.

Will I go to Hell for this?
As if I fucking care!

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( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Thu 13 Oct 2005, 16:20, Reply)

The girlfriend, yesterday
"I guess you had a good day at work, darling, I stayed at home and did some laundry. And whilst I was cleaning out your pockets, I found this Bounty wrapper..."

(wrapper had been ironed flat, and was presented on the pristine white kitchen table)

I look at her, she looks at me. Her eyes never waver. I droop my neck, put my coat on, and go to the shop to buy her a Bounty.
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 10:52, Reply)

E.T. stole my biscuit
I can't believe I'm about to admit this to you lot so I'd like to begin by saying that not only is this story totally true, but please don't judge me as an idiot, I was only four years old.

So, when I was four the usual Saturday morning routine was that our parents would leave me and my brother to our own devices while they would have an extra hour in bed, propped up with tea and biscuits reading the paper. Without fail I would come in every week, politely smiling and repeating the phrase "biccy plees". I'd then make a bee-line for the biscuit tin and, as soon as I grasped one in my grubby little mitt, something amazing would happen...

Suddenly a hand would appear from under the duvet, sticking out the side of the bed. The thumb would remain static while the rest of the fingers, as one, would bob up and down resembling a speaking mouth and, lo and behold, a voice would be heard.

"I'm E.T. Can I have a biscuit?"

Okay, laugh it up. See, I knew that was my dad's hand, and I definitely knew that it was his voice but, being four, you're not that confident in what you know is right or wrong. So, feeling a teeny bit guilty I turn my puppy dog eyes up to my father for reassurance. He puts on this hugely sad voice and, looking at his hand with utter dispair says "E.T. is really hungry, he only wants a biscuit."

No. He wanted MY biscuit and there's no way I'm falling for this. Then my mind pipes up with the following. 'What if we're wrong? What if it really is E.T.? After all we were wrong about that whole pooing-on-the-carpet-being-fine thing. E.T. looks really hungry. What if you don't give him your biscuit and he goes all white and crusty like in the film? That really made you cry. Oh no! What if he dies?'

By now my lip is quivering and the guilt is reaching epic proportions. Sniffing back the first of the inevitable tears I step forward and give my biscuit to E.T. He eagerly snatches it from my hand and disappears back into the bed to eat his biscuit in the privacy of the under-duvet area and I quickly leave the room so my parents don't see me crying. I was about to selfishly eat the biscuit and comdemn E.T. to certain death! I felt so horrible.



E.T. ate my sodding biscuit every Saturday for nearly two whole years.

I hate you E.T.

P.S. There is no truth to the rumour that one Saturday morning, when mummy was out, E.T. started being very naughty and touched me in the bathing suit area.

P.P.S. Should I be freaked out by the fact that my real life sounds like one of Stusut79's bizarre ramblings?

EDIT: I still fucking hate you E.T.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Fri 14 Oct 2005, 9:00, Reply)

Oh I see.
One year I've been a member of B3ta, one year, and was there a present? Hmm? A "thank-you" for joining? Hmmm?

50 QOTWs and not once have you stopped to ask me how am I? Is everything alright?

I bet you're not even going to click "I like this". One little click, and even that's too much for you. Sometimes I wonder if you'd be happier if I were dead…
(Scoobs, Mon 17 Oct 2005, 14:21, Reply)

Biblical buggers
In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve were sitting and chilling in the sun. Eve wanted to do some cooking. She cooked some chips with a bit of fish and these ingredients became bizarrely mutated into one single entity: a big, living, breathing chip with fish's gills.

Adam was well impressed, and quickly learned to master this new organism, training it to perform simple chores. Meanwhile, Eve had decided to prepare a simple rice dish. The rice needed washing first, so she asked Adam what she should use.
"Adam," she said. "I need some kind of wire mesh implement for washing this rice with. Any ideas?"
Adam had just the thing. "I have various utensils that will work just fine!" he said, proudly. "What colour would you like?"
"How about somewhere between black and white?" she replied after some thought.
"Very well!" said Adam cheerfully, before summoning his new aquatic vegetable servant. The little scamp soon appeared in the kitchen. "I need you to do something for me," said Adam. "Please will you.....
....
....
"pass Eve a grey sieve, Gilled Chip!"

Hahahaha! Oh, mercy!!!
(stusut79, Wed 19 Oct 2005, 14:27, Reply)

My step gran
When my ma married Roger my stepfather, her new husband's mum (who was 90 at the time, now pushing up daisies) was not impressed at having to share her son with another woman again.

So on the day of the wedding she stood a couple of feet away from Roger in the registry office.

And shat herself just as the vows started.

She was wearing tights so she managed to shake it down her leg until it bunched up around an ankle, and piped up with 'Roger I've had an accident. You need to help me clean it up.'

And then proceded to mutter loudly 'No not you dear. HE has to help me.' as various relatives tried to bundle her off for a wipe down.

Funny thing is, she never lost the use of her arse at any other time before or after the wedding.
( sm.pl.crt.rs I don't fucking know, do I?, Mon 17 Oct 2005, 17:05, Reply)

birthday guilt: worst. gift. evar.
When I was a lassie of about 9 or 10, my birthday happened to fall on Mother's Day. My grandma had passed away a few weeks earlier and I thought things were beginning to return to normal. I quickly found this was not the case for when I flounced downstairs to let everybody lavish me with birthday-type love, my mom dropped a boxed cake on the counter sans candles and said "Happy birthday...at least you have a mother." She then retired to her room to cry for the rest of the day.

For what it's worth, the cake was delicious!
(Girlmitzi, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 14:10, Reply)

I'm afraid I'm usually the one handing out guilt trips...
I have a brain disorder called Idiopathic Intracranial Hypertension [IIH]. Basically it means that there's too much fluid in my skull and it's slowly squishing my brain and optic nerve [yes, it does hurt. all the time] I've had it since i was about 9 or 10 and, though there are treatments to help, it's incurable.

This makes the best guilt-trip material ever.

Evil Lecturer: "Where's your assigmnent?"
Me: "I'm so sorry, i've just gotten so confused and behind recently, y'see I was in hospital the other day having a seven inch needle pushed between my vertebrae in order to drain my brain fluid and they hit the spinal cord by mistake and i've been having trouble sitting upright for very long because of the nerve-twinges, i'm sure that if i work all night i could get it in for tomorrow though..."
Evil Lecturer: "No, it's okay, you just hand it in when you get it done"


Mum: "Why haven't you done any housework"
Me: "I'm sorry, I tried to do it but i kept having grey-outs [when your sight fades out and you're blind for about 30 seconds before it fades back in again, common symptom of IIH] and i fell over the hoover. I'll do it now-"
Mum: "No, no, you look after yourself, your dad'll do the housework today"

total prick of a man on my course: "You must be nice to me because i have dyslexia and dyspraxia" [he did actually, honestly say this]
me: "ok, but you have to be nice to me beacuse i've had a headache 24 hours a day, every day for about 10 years; every now and then i have seizures and i'm slowly going blind. The drugs I'm on to help it are making me lose my memory and make me shake, so i'm on beta-blockers which make me depressed, so i'm on anti-depressants which give me a headache. I have to have lumbar punctures every 6 weeks and I've just had neurosurgery. *bright smile*"

etc. etc. etc.

it's also got me a free computer with all the trimmings and disabled parking. though, to be honest, i'd rather not have had a headache for 10 years solid.
( Seventh is somewhat subdued, Sun 16 Oct 2005, 20:54, Reply)

Women!
"Look not upon me with thine bulging, juicy eyes!" I pleaded. "The answer is 'NO!'" She shuffled a little where she sat, plaintively fingering the buttons of her coat. "Thy ruse of faux-pity shalt win no favour with this here fellow," I warned, sternly. Nevertheless, I was losing patience and I could sense cracks forming in my steely resolve. I vowed to myself that I would not surrender, but her silence was more powerful than a thousand screaming accusations. "Thou doth attempt to bestow guilt upon my conscience," I argued. "But my conscience has neither the capacity nor the reason to bear such weight. Thou art misguided and ought not to continue in this shameless fashion, for it shall be thine undoing. And thou shalt know this when my granite fist meets thy hard but fragile face."

At last, she broke her silence. "Sir, I understand. Do not worry thyself. It is wrong of me to expect anything from thee. After all, you pleasure me daily, watering my petals with thy warm, silky syrup and furnishing my soil with thy most abundant of seeds. I insert my nimble digits into thy tight man-quincy, suckle upon thy stubbly nips and kneel, cow-like, so that thou may indulge in untamed jimmynudgery, as is your wont. This I do day after day, week after week. I should be satisfied with my lot. I should not ask for more. I am but a selfish wench."

I looked around sheepishly. The street was busy and I did not want anyone to hear. She turned away. I sensed she was beginning to weep. Alas, she had done it again. I knew in my heart that I owed her nothing, but I was unable to respond with a cohesive argument. I crumbled and reached into my pocket. I gave her the money she wanted and took the document from her. "See you at dusk in the usual place," I said, and bade her farewell.

I walked away down the cracked pavement, and I knew I would not be the last to succumb to her sly, back-handed guilt-mongering as I heard her voice again, crying out to anyone who might hear as she plied her filthy, shameful trade: "Big Issue, please!"
(stusut79, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 13:34, Reply)

She is an ex-Weasel. She has ceased to be...
...any of my problem!

Earlier this year I foolishly met an ex for a drink and something to eat. When I failed to laugh at one of her crap jokes and then laughed at something dumb she did I got a tearful angry reaction. It's worth pointing out that she had some genuinely bad things in her life that were troubling her at that time (some serious, some trivial from my p.o.v. but affecting to her none the less).

I realised then for the first time that she would *always* have some issue that would give her an excuse to act hurt, would always have some issue that she felt would give her some moral upper hand and would always claim some sort of victimhood-superiority-complex because of this. She had in the past claimed "That she felt things more than other people" and that "Other people could not understand the depth of her pain". My reaction that my friend Jenny at work with Bowel Cancer probably had a clear idea about pain and suffering was not well received...

I was just tired of all this and wanted it to stop and just not be part of this "more depressed than thou" cycle of recriminations - I told her this and I got the response "That makes me really uncomfortable, etc, etc"

I responded with a not very eloquent but extremely satisfyingly loud "GET FUCKED!" and got up to leave.

She said "You can't leave, you have to stay here and work through these issues and then apologise"

I said "GET FUCKED!" again even louder. Boy that felt good.

The current Ms Weasel (who won't like the term "the current" and therefore may not click 'I like this', so please click it for her) can reduce both of us to helpless laughter by saying "...that makes me really uncomfortable etc, etc" to which I always heartily respond "GET FUCKED! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

I may now write a self-help book on this subject: "I'm OK, You're All Right, She's Fucked Up! - The art of telling overly needy ex-loved ones to go and fuck themselves"


PS Lannes - about being happy, to badly quote from The Princess Bride: "Life is pain Princess, anyone who tells you differently is lying or selling you something"
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Mon 17 Oct 2005, 14:53, Reply)

Son, it's completely up to you
if you want to carry on posting your little 'messages'. Just because each one is like a dagger through my heart, shouldn't stop you.
I'll just sit here, in pain, on my own as usual.

Send no flowers
(Newton Crosby, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 14:38, Reply)

as if you care...

(Slurpy The Frog, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 21:44, Reply)

Celtic relatives
Anyone who has a relative from the Celtic rim (fnarr, fnarr) will really get this joke:

Q. How many Irish grandmothers does it take to change a lightbulb?
A. None. You go out and enjoy yourself. I'll just sit here in the dark.
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 10:05, Reply)

Fathers... I think they can mess you up
My Dad was first class at the guilt trip thing. He'd cheerfully leave me with strangers I'd never met, to be bullied, harassed and terrorised once he'd left for a six month jaunt as a holiday rep. Eventually I persuaded my nan to take custody of me, got it all through the courts, and told him. Was 11 at the time.

In spite of this...

At 18 my nan died. Thankfully I'd just got my first job so I soon had a paycheck. Dad left it up to me to deal with the funeral arrangements and so on, and two days before the funeral of his mother he buggered off on his annual jaunt to South America.

Still, I just carried on. The good old National Abbey (name made into a tough anagram to protect the innocent) cheerfully refused to let me buy the house my nan had lived in, so it got repossesed and they could make a huge profit on selling it on.

At this point, I'd scraped together what I could and bought a flat. And a car, because I needed it for work. I was, quite frankly, skint.

Now, sorry for all the pre-amble, but it's important to set the scene as to what a cunt my father could be.

A few months into my new flat I was getting by ok. Then it started. I got a letter. He'd been robbed in Ecuador (IIRC) and needed money to get by. About £1500 was needed RIGHT AWAY or he'd be in deep trouble. This was 1988, I was 19 then, and so it was quite a lot of money for me. So right away I telexed over what I could manage - about £100.

So the guilt trips, mostly by post, then started. Often written on scraps of mismatching paper.

"Is that all you could send me son? Don't you know you're the most important to me... the only one of my children who talks to me. It's very lonely being out here, all alone. No, I didn't take out travel insurance, it's too expensive. You need to help me son."

I had another £50. Sent that. I was trying to arrange a loan, but that was taking time as my credit rating was shot to hell by all the money I'd had to borrow anyway.

Next letter was along the lines of:

"Son, you're my only hope. The latest money you sent is barely enough to keep me alive. Every day I check to see if something's arrived, but I see nothing. I tell me friends here what a wonderful son you are, that you'll come through for me. But when they see I've yet to get any help from you they just shake their heads and tell me all kids are the same - they don't care about their parents. But son, I know you're different."

Bollocks. Thing is, I fucking hated him at the time. I knew what he was doing, but I wanted to help. I sent another little bit along, in spite of realising that he'd always been exceptionally vague about what he actually did in South America.

"Son, I'm really struggling now. I'm ill and really need more money in order to pay for health care. My sight has been failing me. I'm working illegally now with a travelling circus so it's very difficult for me to know what to do. I'll be at this phone number on the nth."

Panicking now about his health problems I started doing all sorts of things to try and solve his problem. I was severely bollocked for ringing Ecuador from work, but thankfully the boss started giving me contacts in the foreign office. The £600 loan came through, so I sent that off.

After a couple of days I'd got an agreement to get him flown home, paid for by the foreign office (as a loan to him, but with open-ended repayment terms), due to his ill health. I rang him with the good news.

To which point he asked me why he should come back to the UK where he'd still be ill, poor and no better off. He then said "And you've only sent me £600! What use is that? I told you I needed £1500! Don't you have a good job? Have you just pissed away your money?!"

That's when I gave up, silently hung up on the ungrateful bastard, and haven't spoken to him since. I had to sell the flat anyway coz I was skint, the car had to go and be replaced by a banger, and so on.

I'm going to Peru soon for a wedding. If I bump into him I'll forgive him for being a twat. But if he ever asks me for anything, ever, I'll want to kill him. Of course instead I'll probably just feel horribly guilty and cry myself to sleep - my heart keeps being convinced that I was a horrible and cold person for giving up on him, while my head keeps saying I was doing the right thing.

Length?! I could write a book about the guy.
(clopinettes, Tue 18 Oct 2005, 19:56, Reply)

My Nan.
I visited her in hospital while she was suffering from a lung infection.

"I'm sorry, I'm not much company dear." She wheezed "Why don't you go."

I left and the rotten bitch died an hour later. Still, I got loads of cash from the will.
(Cane: I love Sushi, Sobriety & Shotokan, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 9:40, Reply)

Passive-Aggressive? Just plain cruel
You'd think it'd be the upper generation that lays the guilt trip on, alas.. they don't, they're wonderful.

However. My 4 year old has got it down to an artform in one line.

Mini-me: Do want to play with me?

This is not an innocent question, its loaded to the hilt.
If you say Yes, you have to drop everything you're doing, and not allowed to stop or the question, "You no want to play with me anymore" accompanied by the hung head and sad face.
If you say No, he'll drop the bombshell "Are you no my friend?"
Excerpt from conversation this morning.

Son: Can we play a game?
Me: Not just now, I've just woken up and I need some coffee.
Son: You no want to play with me because you just woke up.
Me: Yeah, maybe later once I've had a coffee.
Son: So you're not my friend? You might be my friend after a coffee?

Aaarrrrrgh... I'm sure he misunderstands what the word friend means, but its... hang on... I've got to go play a board game.. I'll finish this later....
(NoMoreFaith can believe its not bloody butter, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 11:42, Reply)

unstoppable tide of guilt. and babies.
SEVEN of my wife's friends are currently pregnant for the first time.

My wife is not.

Need I say more.
(Ali Bongo 9000 Ali Bongo 9000, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 11:24, Reply)

When Sunday lunch is underway,
my nan has incredibly annoying passive-aggressive tencencies - serving herself scraps from the meat, deliberately sitting on the wobbly stool, setting her plate on the odd placemat etc... To sum up, she's the sort of person who says "It's only me" - as if by martyring herself and trying to be small she'll somehow become more likeable.

If I were in charge of Sunday lunches, I'd give her a taste of her own medicine and not serve her at all; maybe then she'd stop acting the gom. (Either that or she'd starve to death.) I just can't stand people like that.

Okay, that story was fecking boring, how about this one?

The other day I was riding on a bus with a bag, on the top deck. (It was an open-topped bus.) Seeing as it’s an open-topped bus and - well - open, I decide to have a quick and peaceful cigarette and not disturb anyone’s sensitive nostrils, taking advantage of the open top as a smoke-disperser. No such luck. Within a minute of lighting up, this big and porky man - he’s about 30, wearing spectacles with fashionably quadrilateral frames and has a face the colour of raw steak - comes up to me and burbles,
"Mate. Sorry, mate. There no smoking on the bus, mate. Look, mate. There’s a sign there, mate -" pointing to a sign which proved this was indeed the case. (I think he has variant Tourette’s or something.)
I say, "Oh. I see," and extinguish the cigarette. Tourette’s Guy then goes back to his seat at the other end of the bus.
With my plans for a quick smoke thoroughly foiled, I turn to plan B, which I’d prepared in case of this eventuality. I get out a big heatproof mat - the sort you put Bunsen burners on at school - rake some coal over it, and set up a spit. I put some firelighters (they’re wax-type jobbies used to light fires) on the coal and used one of my matches to ignite the lot. With much blowing and cursing, I eventually have a nice smoky fire going. I then take two prize herrings out of the bag (it’s a big bag) and hang them on the spit over the smoke. Sure enough, Tourette’s Guy comes over again.
"Mate. Didn’t you hear me, mate? No smoking on the bus, mate."
"That’s only for tobacco products - it doesn’t say anything about fish."
"No, mate - that is true."
"Well, then."
"Mate, just a question, mate. What are you smoking, mate?"
"Herring."
"Herring, mate?"
"Herring."
"Mate, why are you smoking herring on a bus, mate?"
"Because I haven’t got any pilchards."

Sod relevance, I just kept going for the length!
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sat 15 Oct 2005, 1:38, Reply)

Parenting tip #1
Most effective way to disarm your child;

"I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed"

Works every time.

B*stards.
(Spoil Me please, oh, please, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 11:33, Reply)

My problem is your fault...
I once made the mistake of employing someone who used to be a friend. This 'friend' had barely worked a day in her life and in her late thirties decided she needed some work experience. Foolishly I got her a job working with me.

After a long period of putting up with her demands, I had to point out that I didn't exist to fetch and carry for her and that the workplace was not going to be custom designed for her needs (sitting down in the warm on her fat arse doing f*ck all) and that I really didn't see much point in her continuing to 'work' for the company.

Her response to any criticism was to smile patronisingly, look off into the distance with a semi-vacant look and say "I really don't think you should bring your personal problems into work".

It was so passive aggressive that it still makes me angry now! That was about five years ago and I still want to smash her in the face with a big hammer repeatedly, until I have eliminated every last trace of that smug f*cking smile. And then set fire to her. And then do it all all over again. Aaaaarggh!
(Wascally Weasel now with 100% fewer jokes., Thu 13 Oct 2005, 10:50, Reply)

Major Morgan
When I was about 5 I had a toy called Major Morgan. It was a little plastic man that said different phrases and made different sounds.
We were all in the back yard on a sunny day and my Mum had her feet in a bowl of water. (typical council estate therapy). I threatened to give Major Morgan diving lessons if I couldn't have an ice cream. The ice cream never materialised so I proceeded to test the bouyancy of MM. When I pulled the wet toy from the bowl it started making creepy dying sounds like Steven Hawking on diazepam.
Me Mum said "aww, Daniel. You have killed him! You murdered Major Morgan"

cue tears- early bed.
I was so guilt ridden for weeks after, when we sung all things bright and beutiful in primary school, I'd cry for the Major.
(xwoody01, Sun 16 Oct 2005, 12:07, Reply)

It's a female thing isn't it?
Girlfriend calls up crying.
"What's wrong?" I say.
"You never want to spend time with me!" she wails.
"But-but-but-I saw you last night. And the night before you stopped over at my house, and the night before that..."
"I'm just in the waaaaayy! You only spend time with me if you've nothing better to do and you don't want to come out with me tonight!"
"Did I say that? What the fuck?"
"Don't you want to come out tonight?"
"Well, if you're going to spend the time alternating between crying and accusing me of neglecting you or not loving you, then frankly, no."
"Waaaah!"

Even the most together and secure-in-themselves girls I've known have pulled this sort of thing out of the bag. Usually, and this is the crucial thing, during that time of the month though to mention any correlation between hormonal imbalace and manipulative hysterical behaviour would result in a verdict of suicide on the coroner's report.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 12:32, Reply)

Be nice !
A friend of mine who has been struggling with cancer over the past couple of years , ie ever time they tell him they think they have got it all , a couple of weeks later they find more.

One evening his Mrs was popping out to the shops and asked him if he wanted anything picking up . He just turned to her and said in the most winny pathetic voice he could muster " Get me something nice ... I've got cancer " .... pure class

sorry about size its malignant
(phildperv, Mon 17 Oct 2005, 13:04, Reply)

uptonogood
I know what you're trying to do, but it's OK. Guilt-tripping and emotional blackmail don't bother me. Honestly. I've had it all my life. Twenty-six years, man and boy! Mum and Dad said that if it wasn't for me having a bath every Sunday then there would be enough water for them to drink, instead of having to drink alcohol all the time. Even when they died they shared a coffin because they couldn't afford one each due to my school uniform being so expensive.

So carry on. I can take it. Say what you want to me. At least somebody is talking to me. I know it's all my fault anyway. I'll just fade away now. You probably won't hear from me again. I'll be OK. Honestly. I'll be OK.

I'll be OK.
(stusut79, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 16:22, Reply)

No really, Chthonic,
I'm absolutely okay with your never using my suggestions for QOTW. Seriously.

Don't give it another thought.

[mod edit] Phew, glad that's OK. Wouldn't want to feel guilty or anything :)
( Olembe Refuses to write in this space, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 13:15, Reply)

If its not one thing, its your mother!!
After telling my mum that I'll cut the grass later cause it looked like it was gonna rain, there is nothing worse that cutting wet grass, she says "No no, dont bother. I'll do it after I iron your clothes and make the dinner, don't worry about it". Guilty? Me? Nope. "OK, suit yourself" I find myself saying.

Later I go and sit down to watch Grandstand and and I can see out of the corner of my eye Mumsy pushing, with all her might, a lawnmower twice the size of her up and down the garden. Fuck sake. Start to feel a bit guilty so I close the blinds to block out the view.

Eventually go out and explain to her it was a self drive mower so she didn't have to push it, just pull a lever and it would drive itself. Felt so much better.

And yes it did start raining, good job I was inside. Held back a HUGE "Told you so" when she finished. Ha

Size, girth, circumference etc.
(Have_you_seen_my_donkey?, Mon 17 Oct 2005, 16:27, Reply)

Blabbermouth
I recently got a new job, but had to keep it under wraps until today. Unfortunately I was so chuffed I told my mum about the job and she told all her mates. One thing lead to another and it was splashed all over the papers yesterday, stealing the thunder from the official announcement.

Don't worry though, I'll take care of her. I think a daytrip in my specially modified Aston will do the job.
( huntersbar, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 13:10, Reply)

How timely!
I had an operation a couple of weeks ago that meant I was in bed for a week recovering. During that time a couple of friends came over to see if I was ok but no sign of my mum or dad. I saw my mum last night and the first thing she said in a whiny tone was

'Why didn't you come and see me when you had the week off'
(Kazza , loathing myself so you don't have to, Fri 14 Oct 2005, 10:25, Reply)

my girlfriend...
Everytime i make love to my catholic girlfriend, after we finish, she ALWAYS bursts into tears and leaves me lying there feeling like a rapist. She even runs out of the room sometimes.

edit: it's ok we're putting marriage plans together now so she won't feel so bad :¬S
(richard cropper's comedy account Stephen Frizzle is on the sex offenders list, Thu 13 Oct 2005, 20:38, Reply)