Profile for Sonic James Doom:
I started as Sonic Spoon on a few QOTW posts, then I became Sonic Broom for more prolonged /board activity, now I refer to myself by the handle Sonic James Doom, to fit in nicely with my pseudonym on the rest of the internet. I like to be very tidy and organised like that...
Me as made by the quite frankly awesome bilbobarneybobs:
As B3tards is broken, nothing else I have to post is relevant anymore. Ho hum...
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Best answers to questions:
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- a member for 17 years, 9 months and 18 days
- has posted 7851 messages on the main board
- has posted 0 messages on the talk board
- has posted 64 messages on the links board
- (including 8 links)
- has posted 139 stories and 162 replies on question of the week
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I started as Sonic Spoon on a few QOTW posts, then I became Sonic Broom for more prolonged /board activity, now I refer to myself by the handle Sonic James Doom, to fit in nicely with my pseudonym on the rest of the internet. I like to be very tidy and organised like that...
Me as made by the quite frankly awesome bilbobarneybobs:
As B3tards is broken, nothing else I have to post is relevant anymore. Ho hum...
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Cheap Tat
This was actually bought for me
Growing up in Fareham, there were more charity shops than anything else, but the one pound shop we DID have was MASSIVE, and what's more, it sold pretty much everything.
For my birthday one year, a mate of mine, being a fan of all things Vic and Bob, decided to get me a frying pan. Best. Present. Ever.
It was made of some flimsy alloy, akin to metallic paper, and painted red. The best bit, was that it caused absolutely no harm when you attempted to spang someone on the head with it, but it did make a lovely metal "CLANG!" noise.
This was all well and good, causing much merriment in school with even the teachers enjoying the odd spang. It all came to an end when I decided to use it for the intended purpose however.
There were no other clean pans, the parentals were away and I was hungry, so I popped some oil and an egg into my spanging pan, and put it on the stove....
Firstly the red paint began to smoke and bubble, before peeling away from the pan and falling to the bottom of the hob in a flaming mess. Then, the wafer thin pan began to warp and bend. Yup, that's right, a melting frying pan. Stunning.
(N.B. Obviously I removed it from the hob pretty damn sharpish)
(Fri 4th Jan 2008, 13:46, More)
This was actually bought for me
Growing up in Fareham, there were more charity shops than anything else, but the one pound shop we DID have was MASSIVE, and what's more, it sold pretty much everything.
For my birthday one year, a mate of mine, being a fan of all things Vic and Bob, decided to get me a frying pan. Best. Present. Ever.
It was made of some flimsy alloy, akin to metallic paper, and painted red. The best bit, was that it caused absolutely no harm when you attempted to spang someone on the head with it, but it did make a lovely metal "CLANG!" noise.
This was all well and good, causing much merriment in school with even the teachers enjoying the odd spang. It all came to an end when I decided to use it for the intended purpose however.
There were no other clean pans, the parentals were away and I was hungry, so I popped some oil and an egg into my spanging pan, and put it on the stove....
Firstly the red paint began to smoke and bubble, before peeling away from the pan and falling to the bottom of the hob in a flaming mess. Then, the wafer thin pan began to warp and bend. Yup, that's right, a melting frying pan. Stunning.
(N.B. Obviously I removed it from the hob pretty damn sharpish)
(Fri 4th Jan 2008, 13:46, More)
» Personal Hygiene
Festival toilets...
Everyone knows the state that festival toilets are in by the end of the weekend and really this one was no different to the rest... except for the fact that upon opening the door I discovered a mound of shit so high it had escaped the chemical bit at the bottom of the toilet, and formed a peak reaching a good foot above the level of the seat.
How the bluddering fuck did someone manage that?!?
Not only this however... Someone had put a Bakewell Tart on the top of the mound.
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 15:29, More)
Festival toilets...
Everyone knows the state that festival toilets are in by the end of the weekend and really this one was no different to the rest... except for the fact that upon opening the door I discovered a mound of shit so high it had escaped the chemical bit at the bottom of the toilet, and formed a peak reaching a good foot above the level of the seat.
How the bluddering fuck did someone manage that?!?
Not only this however... Someone had put a Bakewell Tart on the top of the mound.
(Thu 22nd Mar 2007, 15:29, More)
» Housemates
My housemate at the moment is a complete mental....
Our housemate is a bit of an ego-freak, who needs the attention of others to validate her own existence, in addition to that though she's got one hell of a temper on her and frquently breaks down into screaming, crying hissy fits. I swear a couple of times she even stopped breathing she was so angry and for why? Well...
1. Whenever Lady Doom and I cook some food, housemate has to know what's going on and demands that we make her some food as well. We can't sit down and eat ours first though, that would be too easy - instead we've got to let our dinner go cold while we prepare something for her to keep the peace.
2. ALL telly watching is verboten. Seriously, ten minutes of Jeremy Kyle or Cash In The Attic would be televisual paradise in our house. We foolishly started trying to sneak in DVD episodes of The Wire when we thought the coast was clear, but somehow her sixth sense kicks in and there she is, kicking off again.
3. As she has no job, she finds it perfectly reasonable to sleep all day and stay awake all night, which would be fine if she was quiet about it and we could get forty winks... Needless to say her need for recognition and attention knows no boundaries and at the first sign of one or other of us droping she gets bored and we have to somehow find a way to occupy her time (despite the fact that our own interests are completely marginalised).
We're in this for the long term though, we can't get rid of her. She's only seven weeks old.
/length gag
(Thu 26th Feb 2009, 14:09, More)
My housemate at the moment is a complete mental....
Our housemate is a bit of an ego-freak, who needs the attention of others to validate her own existence, in addition to that though she's got one hell of a temper on her and frquently breaks down into screaming, crying hissy fits. I swear a couple of times she even stopped breathing she was so angry and for why? Well...
1. Whenever Lady Doom and I cook some food, housemate has to know what's going on and demands that we make her some food as well. We can't sit down and eat ours first though, that would be too easy - instead we've got to let our dinner go cold while we prepare something for her to keep the peace.
2. ALL telly watching is verboten. Seriously, ten minutes of Jeremy Kyle or Cash In The Attic would be televisual paradise in our house. We foolishly started trying to sneak in DVD episodes of The Wire when we thought the coast was clear, but somehow her sixth sense kicks in and there she is, kicking off again.
3. As she has no job, she finds it perfectly reasonable to sleep all day and stay awake all night, which would be fine if she was quiet about it and we could get forty winks... Needless to say her need for recognition and attention knows no boundaries and at the first sign of one or other of us droping she gets bored and we have to somehow find a way to occupy her time (despite the fact that our own interests are completely marginalised).
We're in this for the long term though, we can't get rid of her. She's only seven weeks old.
/length gag
(Thu 26th Feb 2009, 14:09, More)
» Strict Parents
Not my parents...
... who have among other things babysat for Ozzy Osbourne while he and the rest of the band got twunted off their faces. No, mine are pretty chilled out. Mrs. Spoon on the other hand...
Parents used to be strict Catholics - as in Mother was a Nun and Father was a trainee priest (obviously something went wrong somewhere for there to be a daughter but anyway). As she was growing up there were numerous acts of parental lunacy but this one wins.
They were ridiculously over-paranoid about drugs - even the slightest mention and they'd flip out, so one day when the mother of the story is in my missus bedroom and finds a wrapped up foil thing she goes fucking apeshit - but not in front of my missus. No, she has to be sure first, so off she goes to best mates house to consult with other parents... no-one can identify the former contents of the mysterious foil, but it smells kind of sweet...
wobbly lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
one week later, having had no luck with parents, the mother of our story heads over to see the doctor, foil wrap in hand. The doctor has a look, takes scraping from the edge of this stuff to try and figure out what it is, has a sniff - same slightly sweet smell, a little bit like strawberries. He's getting on a bit though and doesn't really know what the kids are into these days. Best to open the whole thing up and see if there's a better sample anywhere. As the doctor opens up this tinfoil flower, a rather familiar looking word appears:
Petit Filous.
It was a strawberry yoghurt pot lid.
(Thu 8th Mar 2007, 17:08, More)
Not my parents...
... who have among other things babysat for Ozzy Osbourne while he and the rest of the band got twunted off their faces. No, mine are pretty chilled out. Mrs. Spoon on the other hand...
Parents used to be strict Catholics - as in Mother was a Nun and Father was a trainee priest (obviously something went wrong somewhere for there to be a daughter but anyway). As she was growing up there were numerous acts of parental lunacy but this one wins.
They were ridiculously over-paranoid about drugs - even the slightest mention and they'd flip out, so one day when the mother of the story is in my missus bedroom and finds a wrapped up foil thing she goes fucking apeshit - but not in front of my missus. No, she has to be sure first, so off she goes to best mates house to consult with other parents... no-one can identify the former contents of the mysterious foil, but it smells kind of sweet...
wobbly lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
one week later, having had no luck with parents, the mother of our story heads over to see the doctor, foil wrap in hand. The doctor has a look, takes scraping from the edge of this stuff to try and figure out what it is, has a sniff - same slightly sweet smell, a little bit like strawberries. He's getting on a bit though and doesn't really know what the kids are into these days. Best to open the whole thing up and see if there's a better sample anywhere. As the doctor opens up this tinfoil flower, a rather familiar looking word appears:
Petit Filous.
It was a strawberry yoghurt pot lid.
(Thu 8th Mar 2007, 17:08, More)
» Kids
Oh the shame...
A while back I was working for a very small company. A company so small I was actually working in the third bedroom of my bosses house.
The upside of this was that his missus would make us lunch, always something healthy and very tasty. The downside was the his four kids would sometimes interrupt, but nothing too bad, I was never expected to wipe bums or anything.
One lunch time we're having some lovely soup and bread and chatting about public displays of affection (which neither of us really mind too much). My boss jokingly says that he never hugs his wife, to which the oldest of his kids responds:
"yes you do, you take all your clothes off and hug mummy and you go UH UH UH UH! and then mummy turns around and you..."
At this point she was stopped by two beetroot faced parents. Work was never the same again...
(Fri 18th Apr 2008, 10:03, More)
Oh the shame...
A while back I was working for a very small company. A company so small I was actually working in the third bedroom of my bosses house.
The upside of this was that his missus would make us lunch, always something healthy and very tasty. The downside was the his four kids would sometimes interrupt, but nothing too bad, I was never expected to wipe bums or anything.
One lunch time we're having some lovely soup and bread and chatting about public displays of affection (which neither of us really mind too much). My boss jokingly says that he never hugs his wife, to which the oldest of his kids responds:
"yes you do, you take all your clothes off and hug mummy and you go UH UH UH UH! and then mummy turns around and you..."
At this point she was stopped by two beetroot faced parents. Work was never the same again...
(Fri 18th Apr 2008, 10:03, More)