When
my sisters and I were but slips of children we would regularly have to spend hours crammed into the back of my fathers latest crappy vehicular purchase on our way to visit our grandparents in South Wales or, if were especially lucky, to go on holiday to Aberwystwyth (bear with the spelling I'm slightly drunk).

Anyhoo, my middle sister would sit next to the window and stare out, whilst childishly humming and (probably) blowing bubbles. She was 4 see? One long afternoon from North Yorkshire to South Wales she spotted the recently pasted remains of a hedgehog that had come second in a contretemps with a car.

"What is that Daddy?" she piped up. My father took a drag on his cigarette and began explaining that the squished remains you see on roads are actually the splattered remains of lobsters. She was afraid of Lobsters you see?

As far as I can remember, he explained how lobsters when they were young lived free high in the atmosphere, swooping, diving, and generally having a great lobstery time. However, when they grew older they had to return to the sea and so had to make themselves parachutes to gently float down. Most made it but some, unfortunately, got blown off course and hit roads - becoming the puddle of blood and gore that she could see.

This started an 8 year paranoia for my sister. Hating lobsters she was continually afraid that one would parachute down on her. My father helped her by screaming that a lobster was above her when she was annoying him (about 3 times a week if I remember) and she would run crying to shelter.

I'm sure that faking a species of aero-lobsters to gain some measure of control over an unruly child is covered by this question, and you'll be pleased to note that I believe that at least part of my sisters subsequent psychological problems is down to having been prone to 'parachuting lobster' fear whenever she pissed the Old Man off.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 3:35, 5 replies)

Just faked it and got caught
Met up with a group of friends including a girl that I had suspicions liked me. In the midst of conversation it was suggested that we should go out, and foolishly instead of being honest, I did the nice guy thing and said sure, why not.
Unfortunately, in saying yes, I seemed to confirm the girl's hopes and she became very touchy/feely, and my ability to sidestep the advance's began to wain. She noticed this, beckoned me to a quieter place to talk, and asked what was going on. I foolishly, told her that I'd asked her out because it seemed the right thing to do, and that despite her being awesome (100% truth), I was still hung up on other girls.

Result: Scratch one friend, scratch one potential relationship, scratch upcoming comfortable social meetings.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 2:33, Reply)

I told them, "I did not have an affair with that woman."
Pffffffffffffffffffftttt!
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 2:32, Reply)

Faking as an art form
Ever since I was little I have taken 'faking' to the highest levels. Let's see:

Dossier 10292 of subject X
--------------------------

- Age 9. Convinced my brother who was 6 at the time that taxis were evil policemen. Ran away screaming at the top of my lungs waving my hands in the air whenever one appeared. Younger brother as a result highly paranoid and given to panic attacks at the site of taxis (and police vehicles).

- Age 9. Completely faked being excited at Christmas despite already knowing the contents of every single item having found the hiding location months before. Memborable quote upon being given a toy which I had played with in secret for many months: "Wow Awesome! Thank you! I've wanted this for ages!"

- Age 10. Started a gardening business. Worked extremely short hours, and paid for junk food out of my mother's purse. Acted as if food was coming from proceeds of business.

- Age 10. Overcome with remorse at being so hard-hearted tried to work diligently to pay it off. Ended up spending long billable hours in front of the TV at the people's houses I was supposed to be gardening at. Did little bits of gardening during ad breaks - not really faking but close enough.

- Ages 11-15. Faked not being on the computer late in the night and early in the morning playing games by running back to bedroom. Faked not eating ice cream by digging holes in it and layering back over the top. Incredible amounts of deception and lying.

- Age 16. Faked not masturbating. Memorable quote: "What's masturbating? That's definitely not what I was doing!" Parents didn't buy it...

- Age 16. Faked being able to do websites. Learned on most jobs.

- Age 18 - 21. Faked university study. Cheated on most exams due to laziness.

- Present. Fakes having girlfriend. Hides hair loss. Fakes income tax...

Length? Fully extendable and retractable to fit most love nests.
(satellite blows, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 1:14, 1 reply)

Validate assumptions
Years ago, and for many years, I cultivated marijuana, as did most of my friends. I did reasonably well, until I had a child and gave all the money to his mother. Some of my friends are still going. Many of them are millionaires now.

A necessary part of the work is maintaining a respectable identity and cover story for various suspicious activities. From keeping neighbours happy and unsuspecting to laundering large quantities of foreign currency, practically all aspects of public interaction have an element of deception.

The technique I found to be best is to be a blank slate and accept the assumptions that people make, just like in improvisational acting. Avoid "blocking". Whatever the other person says, just go along with it. The person will feel gratified that her assumption was correct, and won't question any further. The real trick is to avoid hesitation. If you are too slow to validate, then uncertainty sets in.

Now for the funny story:

It is difficult to maintain a facade, and very tiring mentally sometimes. The girlfriend of my friend told me the story of when she had had enough and decided to break up with him.

She was skiing with her brother and and his friend, and on the chair lift, the friend wanted to know the local price of marijuana.

As growers, we typically deal in quantities of tens or hundreds of pounds. For a friend, we might sell as small as a quarter pound for a favour. More often, I would just give it to them.

So when the brother's friend asked, "How much does a quarter cost?", as in quarter ounce, she jumped in with, "About $900."

They looked at her wondering what the Hell she was talking about. It took her a second or two to realise they weren't talking about pounds.

It was then that she knew she needed to go.
(DeepBlue, Sun 13 Jul 2008, 0:17, 3 replies)

The big O.
Short and sweet.

Yes, I'm a bloke.

Yes, I've faked orgasm.

Sometimes enough is just enough.
(Phaedron Dizzying epiphanies from the bottom of my pint., Sat 12 Jul 2008, 22:22, Reply)

I was 21
It was Blue Lace nightclub in Bradford.

I was a postman.

When I was 5 I lost my eye due to chronic glaucoma caused by a tumour. When I was about 15 I bashed my head and got a tiny scar on the forehead. When I was 18 I jumped over a fence and smashed a kneecap.
So much is true.
But not tonight. Tonight I was an ex-para. Tonight I had served in the Falklands, My best mate had trod on a mine, he got smeared, and I got hospitalised and then invalided out. Tonight I was a hero, the dogs bollocks, and I was going to pull.

She was about 19 and gorgeous (I had already drunk a fair few pints that night, so she may have been as beautiful as much as I had been a para)

After a couple of dances, and a couple of snogs we got chatting.

"So what do you do?" she asked, "I'm a postman now" I replied, "but I used to be in the army."

She asked me why I had left, so I told her. I told her about that dreadful night. We had been tabbing from Darwin through Fitzroy and on past Bluff Cove to advance on Stanley. Just before we reached Mount Longdon we crossed a minefield deposited by the Argentine forces. My best mate, Jim, had trod on a mine and the shrapnel from the blast had got me. Despite the loss of my knee I had dragged Jim to the safety of some nearby rocks, but there was nothing that could be done and, sadly, despite my heroic efforts he died. My injuries were so severe that I was in hospital for the rest of the conflict, and upon my return to the UK was discharged.

She agreed with me that it was a shame that I had had to leave the army. That being a postman wasn’t so bad, and that I was lucky to be alive. Then she asked the question.

“What regiment were you in then?”

“3 Para.” I replied.

“Oh that’s lucky!” she exclaimed, “My brother’s in 3 Para.” He’s just over there. You want to go and see him. You’ll be able to have a right good chat about old times. You might know him”
Oh no. No no no.
Noooo.
I am naturally a coward. I know what members of the aforementioned regiment do to people who are stupid, nay suicidal enough to claim to have been in The Parachute Regiment. It’s not nice. There was a distinct possibility that I might lose another kneecap, if I stuck around. I might lose a lot more. They really can be brutal buggers when they want to be, and giving some soft twat in a nightclub a really good kicking to uphold regimental honour would be seen as the start of a fairly good night out.

Suddenly sex with the vision of loveliness that stood before me did not seem as half as attractive as my future survival. “Errrm, that’ll be good” I said. “I’m just off to the loo and I’ll go over and have a chat with him on my way back. Can you look after my drink for me?”

I casually walked past the dance floor and turned round the corner towards the toilets. Once I was out of her sight I went straight for the exit, down the steps, and legged it out of the door.
I never went back to Blue Lace. I never again claimed to have been in the army. I never met that beautiful woman again either. But I am alive. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to any members, or former members, of The Parachute regiment who happen to be reading this story. I have learned my lesson and for the last 20 years have never repeated my stupid, reckless, unforgiveable behaviour.

Please do not feel that you have to kill me. I am genuinely sorry for what I did

Length? Sorry, but at the end of the evening it had shrivelled to about a quarter of its normal size.
( Occulus Swallowed, instead of spat, on, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 21:09, 1 reply)

When I was about 13
I just got GTA Vice City.
Everyone knows the first few days are very addictive, unfortunately I woke up early on a Sunday and realised I had a football match for the local team.

I walked half waydown the stairs then jumped to the bottom and screamed as if i twisted my ankle, my mum then came and had a look and put some ice on it, rang my manager and said I was injured and I played GTA all day.
(Kierz, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 15:57, 3 replies)

I am lying
I never considered myself to be of the honest persuasion, and was quite open about this. I laugh at all those internet profiles claiming lying was the worst to those people, because i don't think most of them could handle being confronted with the truth non stop.
So this new qotw, i thought, finally gives me something to post. Since we were on page 3 i was wrecking my brains for stories when i had faked something, and came to the surprising conclusion, that aside from an occasional stomach flu i haven't faked anything really in my entire life.
And this is when it hit me. I did fake something. All my life, i have faked myself into believing i was a faker.
(Boor, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 15:21, Reply)

Recently
I started working in a supermarket. I have this very husky quiet voice so i constantly get asked if i have a sore throat. It hasn't been a problem so far but after getting sick of the strange look when i replied "no, this is my normal voice" i've taken to just answering "yes".

It's not a problem as far as the work goes. I can raise my voice when i have to but if any of the customers become regular it's going to seem a little strange.
(panda_sam, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 14:42, 3 replies)

Not a brown labrador in sight......
I must have been 10ish (the time Sean Connery likes to go to Wimbledon). I detested school with a vengeance. Hard to believe now, but I was The School Swot, always coming top in my year group, if not the school for French, English & science, winning prizes left right & Chelsea in the process.

Not only was I an uber-swot, I came from The Posh Estate. Meaning it was the only private estate in teh pit village (it was a Leech house). The rest consisted of council estates and pit houses. Nothing wrong with that; however, my peers' other prerequisite was the total lack of the ability to breathe nasally.

Therefore, Young Tourettes was ostracised at best, ruthlessly bullied at worst. The only relevance of which was my constant insatiable search for excuses to stay off school. Tonsillitis was good; glandular fever was even better (that got me out of P.E. for 6 months to boot!). Genuine childhood ailments, followed by a long spell of good health. Meh!

Then I played a blinder. Literally.....

From whence the inspiration came, I have no idea. I was forever daydreaming, allowing my eyes to drift off out of focus; leaving the Real World far behind and choosing to spend the majority of time in my own Special World. I was doing this one morning as I descended the stairs. Half way down, a half-baked plan came to me. Leave the eyes out of focus and pretend to be blind!

Fuck me all ways, my folks fell for it. I scored 4 or 5 months off school! (Wouldn’t happen nowadays, oh no, I’d be packed off with Extra Visual Support. But this was the 70’s.) My mother helped me to dress, cut my food up (chips at 3 o’clock, Spam at 8 o’clock, fried egg at 12. “Where’s the Ketchup, Mam?”
“Eeh, sorry pet, it’s at 6 o’clock”).


I was duly taken to *see* the GP, who referred me to an eye specialist in Newcastle. Of course, he couldn’t find anything amiss and suggested I visit an optician. Throughout the exam, I kept up my Oscar-winning performance. However, when the optician started putting different lenses in the frames, a potential problem hit me. If I came away with fuck-off jam jar specs that really would cattle my eyes. So in my 10-year-old wisdom, I decided to say the “weaker” lenses helped. 15 minutes later, I thought I’d been rumbled. The optician told my mother all the lenses he’d inserted had been clear glass! Stinky Poo! How was I going to wriggle out of this? He turned to my mother in all seriousness and said, “Your daughter has nothing physical wrong with her sight. Her blindness is psychosomatic. Can you think of any possible triggers or causes?”
She thought for a moment then proclaimed, “Yes! She read that Shiela Hocken book, “Emma and I” – she was really moved by the story and empathised hugely with the blind lady!”
“That’d do it”, replied the nice optician.

And lo, I had another few weeks off school, while my eyesight *gradually returned*…….

Little fuck-sock that I was.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 12:55, 17 replies)

Management Courses
.
An old boss of mine, who was also a mate, went on a management course and came back with a lovely tale.

After the first day, all of the managers on the course were told to go out and fool someone that night. Be someone else. Convince somebody that you were something you weren't. (Aside: and I've no idea why. Perhaps it was to get them used to the fact that, as managers, they'd have to get used to lying. But I digress)

So they all had dinner (it was a residential course in a hotel) and went on their mission to fake it. A couple of blokes turned American, put on a lousy accent and fooled some locals into thinking they were Texan oil tycoons. Another guy nicked some roses from reception and tried to flog them in the restaurant to couples. That worked - he was hustled away by two burly porters and kicked up the arse. My mate Ken was particularly inventive. He stood in the lift and posed as the lift operator - he even made twenty quid in tips so he was sorted.

But there was one bloke on the course who didn't seem interested. He went straight from dinner and parked himself at the bar and proceeded to see how much he could rack up on his expense account.

So next day dawns and the next seminar starts. The lecturer asked people to stand up and recount how they'd faked it the previous evening. All was going well until the door swung open and the guy who'd been at the bar all night staggered in. He looked terrible. Bloodshot eyes, hungover to fuck and a fat lip.

"Well Mr X" boomed the lecturer "And who did you manage to convince you were something you're not?

"The barmaid" he grinned "I convinced her I was a nice guy and would respect her in the morning...."


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 12:49, Reply)

Fake it till you make it
I finished my uni classes for the day yesterday and went home where I could enjoy some much-needed downtime with a bottle of beer and B3ta. Whilst re-reading the QOTW I had an epiphany, and a strange thought began to surface from somewhere in the depths of my exhausted mind. Soon enough I began to ponder quietly as I was sipping on my beer. As the QOTW says, we’ve all played “let’s pretend” at some point. I think it unlikely, however, that most people realise the extent to which some of us have done so.

Some people, for example, portray an image of themselves which is entirely inconsistent with their thoughts or feelings (what they may consider their actual “personality”) on daily basis. To a degree this can be called acting, but the negative connotations of putting on an “act” in a social environment could belie the genuine reason for doing so.

Sounds daft, I know, but stick with me for a moment. I was one of these people for…well…the majority of my life and (maybe) I can offer a little insight into why some people choose to do this.

Growing up isn’t easy for many people. Every household/family/environment (call it what you wish) is unique. Mine involved a sister, my Mum and my Dad. Dad had been an abusive alcoholic since before I was born and my family had suffered for it in several ways. My mother and sister were emotionally abused, and I was both emotionally and physically punished since my father took a particular dislike to my disobedience in what he was determined was “his” house.

The environment I was living in was reflected in my behaviour and my thoughts when I was at home. I didn’t talk much, was tentatively on-edge and also took to comfort eating in my teens (went from a 6-pack to overweight in a matter of months once I began. Yes, it happens to guys too). This wasn’t just behaviour conditional to my Dad being at home, either. I felt like this ALL the time at home, regardless of Dad’s presence.

While I won’t go into any details suffice to say that years of emotional abuse has a profound effect on a person’s mind and development. My mother and sister developed serious clinical depression, as did my father (I never did figure out whether the depression – a chemical imbalance in the brain – was the cause or the result of it). The problem was that it was years until this was actually diagnosed – I was 16 when my mother and father attempted suicide (6 weeks apart from each other. Both failed) and were admitted to a psychiatric ward in the nearby hospital for examination and rehabilitation. They were put on anti-depressants, given counselling, and eventually came home, whence a cycle of home-rehab-home-rehab began for each of them (out of synch, too).

Of course, nobody on the outside had a clue what home life was like. Not my friends, not the neighbours, or the people that my parents associated with.

Why?

We were all pretending. Each of us was…well…”different” when we were in the company of “outsiders”. You know how when a group of people behave differently within their social circle when somebody new is introduced? It was similar, but very exaggerated. Our whole demeanour changed not only as a family, but as individuals (I hope I’m making some sort of sense here).

I went from my quiet, moody, angry and nervous home-self to flamboyant as soon as I spoke to the first outsider, whether it was at school, work or the sport teams my Dad allowed me in. I noticed it in my sister as well. The tentative glance my sister and I made toward each other each morning as each of us parted ways at the school gate, watching the other talk to their respective friends and seeing them smile for the first time since getting home the previous day is a moment no words can describe. That’s when I suppose we felt we were out of the woods and could begin our lives that existed away from home.

And so the days went by. I found reasons to laugh and joke, and tell myself to think happy thoughts so the fear of what was waiting for me at home wouldn’t get to me. I pretended I was OK. I pretended I was happy. I pretended that the occasional fat lip or bruised arms and legs were from carpentry/sport/fighting. I pretended that I wasn’t who I was or what I was. I did this until I moved out of home so I could go to a university in a different city.

I moved into a flat with other first-years and soon enough the happy façade began to crumble. I began having mood swings and thinking unusually violent thoughts. I couldn’t keep up this “act” of being a well-adjusted happy individual 24/7. However, I convinced myself that it was a just a passing thing that I would grow out of, though deep down I knew I was in denial. Around this time my sister decided to make an attempt at suicide herself, and *thankfully* was saved by a friend that made sure she received the appropriate treatment as I was no longer around (a fact which still wracks me with guilt).

A year later I was much wiser (relatively, anyway) and chose to open up a bit so I could try and BE happy instead of just ACTING it. I was living in a different flat with different flatmates which were kept at arms distance. I decided to try being more open and began by eventually confiding in a close friend why I might be behaving unusually, and related my home-history to her. This turned out to be a big mistake. She went ahead and told our mutual friends what I told her, in great detail. I was mad as hell.

However, I decided that it would be best to feign forgiveness even if I wasn’t ready to really forgive her yet so that things could move on – I told myself that “everybody deserves a second chance, don’t they?”

PANG. You know that feeling you get when you have a thought – just a thought – and the sudden, unforeseen tsunami of emotion that stems from it is so strong, so swift that it catches you entirely off guard?

Good God, I was crying – a 20 year old dude sitting in his room on an idle Wednesday afternoon, and I was unable to stop the emotion from distorting my face into a pained grimace. It took all my strength to not make any sound. If I could hear myself do this it would become too real. I was embarrassed for myself. Why now? Why was this still hurting, still agonizing, still rotting my core even now?
“It was a while ago, it doesn’t matter anymore” I reminded myself, pretending that it was true.

I fought it like hell. I punched the wall, my pillows, the door, anything that could distract me or pull my attention away from my own contemplations – if my Dad couldn’t make me cry with his punches and kicks then neither could this thought, this emotion, this foreign THING that was attacking my psyche.

I was wrong. It was getting ever harder to hold on…so eventually I let it all out. It was over surprisingly fast, like a dam breaking, subjecting everything downstream to its wrath. Never cried so hard in my life before, or since, that afternoon.

It took a while to pull myself back together. I gathered my thoughts and realised that I needed to make a fresh start. I had to stop faking, even if it was only to my closest friends. That’s when it began. That’s when I began to stop acting, stop pretending and abandon the charade that virtually split my personality. I admitted to myself where I came from and convinced myself that I could do better. I could BE better.

Some time last year, about 2 years after breaking down quietly in my room, I realised I had finally accomplished what I had set out to do that day. I can be “myself” (for lack of a better term) not only with my girlfriend and my friends, but also with my family. Thankfully, they’re better too. Their depression and my father’s alcoholism have been successfully managed by means of medication and counselling, and gone is the previous charade of happiness we put on for others. Now, we actually ARE happy.

Sometimes, I guess faking it can pave the path to a lot more than that CV that got you the job, or an empty promise that got you elected or laid. While pretending to be someone you’re not isn’t something that is particularly appreciated in our world, sometimes people might feel they have to do it to survive, to get them through a difficult time. Legless has mentioned somewhere on here that we all change, grow and all leave behind who we once were, hopefully becoming better people.

I couldn’t agree with you more, Legless.

Looks like you *can* “fake it till you make it” after all, huh?

Apologies for length, I guess something about this QOTW just inspired me to share.
(thecurriedavenger, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 12:15, 10 replies)

Me and my lawyer played 'let's pretend'
The jury believed us too! I, straight up murdered my wife, and got away with it. I even wrote a book about doing it for fuck's sake. No one can touch me!


O.J.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 11:32, Reply)

It's a familiar tale...
A colleague becomes pregnant and takes themselves away for a year. You wish them well, sign their card and send them on their way. The company intranet soon announces the birth of a child, informs you of the name and weight and offers congratulations. So far all is heartfelt and genuine.

Then they turn up one afternoon, sprog in tow, and people gather to coo and brood over the new arrival. That's fine, it's not for everyone, but each to their own.

Then they stop by to see you. You worked closely, got on well, may even have socialised outside of the office, so you're quite happy to say hello. So you talk to them. You don't have any interest in the child, but you're happy to talk to them.

But the faking always happens:

"So, uh, is it sleeping well?

"Sorry, she. Is she sleeping well?"

"All through through the night, hey, fascinating!"

"No, I have a cold, so shouldn't really hold it, her, sorry, I shouldn't hold her." *cough, etc...*

Then there are the those situations, you know the ones: you peer towards the child and you prepare the standard "Awww, she's beautiful". However, as your eyes move pramwards and the words gather on the tip of your tongue you find yourself face to face with Sloth from the Goonies, and it's all you can do not to turn and run, screaming all the while as you leave the building via the nearest window... "Awww" you lie, "she's really something that one. Is that the time? I have a meeting with the CEO, the MD and the Finance Director." Then walk away as quickly as possible without breaking into an obvious run.
( Moey, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 11:12, 3 replies)

i was a teenage conterfieter
back when i was about 15 dad had a small time business printing pub menus and the like. so we had some half decent kit sat in the back of the house (corel draw 3.0, motherfuckers!). this gave me the chance to run a handy sideline in fake id cards and that sort of thing. all pretty harmless stuff.. and i was doing a great public service by helping younger and younger people to drink enough to make them forget they were in mansfield.

then one day a friend's dad, who's in the construction trade, grabs me in the village local, hands me a rather formal and legal looking european union insurance document, and asks for 20 more. with the strict instruction that i speak of this to nobody.

so i set to work and, i have to say, produced a fucking masterpiece. when i delivered the product the only way my customer could identify the original was by the watermark on the paper (i was good, but not *that* good). he said 'do you know what these are for'.. i said 'no'.. he said 'be glad' and handed me £20.

the story ends there. and i don't know what bothers me most... the fact that i probably helped put a bunch of brickies in danger of being locked up for working under forged documents, or the fact that the miserly cunt only paid me £20 for doing so.
( deshnoodle agonising over sig files since 1995, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 10:46, 2 replies)

Nothing much...
On the whole I consider myself to be a fairly straightforward kind of lass; haven't done much in the way of spectacular faking...

Though I suppose there is that whole double life thing...

Let me explain - I'll try to do it without being dull. I am a fairly average woman in my twenties; I have a pretty good job, which is moderately interesting to me; spent much of yesterday recovering from an evil hangover; came home to a loving live-in boyfriend, who is only annoying to the normal and permitted degree. So far, so unremarkable.

My parents believe me to be a teetotal virgin. For as long as I can remember, I have negotiated truths before sharing them with Mum and Dad, who are religious and have a strong set of cultural values which I respect and admire. And which I agreed with until the first time I fell intractably in love, and understood that it wasn't about behaving vs. rebelling, and that actually the idea of love wasn't just a collective delusion, or a social construct. And falling in love led inevitably to having sex; alcohol followed soon after, due to a complicated sense of hypocrisy from me (though it quickly became an uncomplicated affection for booze and being drunk); and lying increasingly became the thing I did without thinking, whenever they were in earshot.

I am still staggered by the audacity of moving in with my boyfriend, and managing (so far - fingers crossed) to keep that under wraps. I'd always been mostly appalled by similar stories I've heard from other people. But we're nearly a year down the line, and getting away with it.

I probably sound a bit flippant about it all, but it's not easy. During that first, terrifying relationship (I had never even kissed anyone before, and I was at Uni when it happened), I remember sobbing because I had found such happiness, but couldn't tell my parents. And I remember the two weeks of summer holiday I had to spend at the parental home, after I'd been horrifically dumped and generally destroyed from the inside - but during which time I had to pretend nothing was wrong. Followed by me rushing back to Uni in order to allow myself to go through the breakdown I had been superhumanly resisting. Yes, I covered that up too.

People always ask the same questions; they would be mostly hurt if they found out the truth, and it's much for my good as theirs that I don't tell them; they're lovely parents who definitely love me; yes, of course it's a bit weird, but this is essentially the only life I know... It's kinda working for me so far.

Anyway, I didn't mean for the narrative to become so laden with strings. I am so far getting away with it - I wish I didn't have to, but it's not worth disturbing the world just yet... If we get married, it should all be magically OK. As long as my parents don't ask any probing questions about the past that is...

We've been together 3 and a half years. He's an absolute nightmare and I love him loads.
(entry_level_adultette, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 4:41, 6 replies)

Peace Time
The whole world seems to be faking it.

Wake up everyone! We are now almost severn years into world war three. Surely someone else must have noticed it, or is it just me?
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 3:13, 11 replies)

sneaky
bastard
(Kierz, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 3:09, Reply)

el-kerbong
I was once a customer service rep for Blue Cross in California. Since it was a union job the only way to get fired was to show up late. I was 30 minutes late to work. Again. For the second time that week. It was Tuesday.

The only excuse my mind could think of was in the catostrophy coloumn. I looked arond the car for something to wound myself with. Jon was kind enough to let me borrow his bass guitar after helping him move his crap into storage while he enjoyed his unemployment sabaticcal and it was in the passenger seat. So at the first stoplight I picked the base up and drew it back.

KERBONNGGGG! The I checked the vanity mirror on my sun shade and saw a decent welt, but I thought it could be better.KERBONGGG!KREBANGGG(oooh, look at the pretty stars)GGGGGgggg. Alright. Now I got a lump and the people stopped next to me have their mouths open. Still....

My injury was still lacking something. Ah, yes. Needs blood. I looked around for something to bust me open with. I found an earing of the stud varity belonging to my girlfriend. At the next stoplight I clenched my teeth and pushed the back of the earing through the flesh on my newly created forehead lump. I took a deep breath and brought it across my forehead with a "Keee-Yahhhh!!!" Karate style. I repeated this twice more as the people in the car next to me took pictures with their camera phones.

I walked into work looking like Terry Funk after a texas death match. My boss came up to me after I stumbled my way to my desk to ask why I was late. "Oh, my god! What happened?"

"Oh, I was in a car accident. Can I leave early to go to the doctor?"

So I walk into the doctors office with this swollen bloody pulsating lump on my forehead and told the doctor what I imagined might of happened. I was expecting some pain killers and muscle relaxers, but I wound up with a release off work untill Friday. I accepted the offer.

Then I went to my docor feel good and loaded up on unecessary pain killers.

Visit to crooked doctor = 80 dollars

Copay for scedual 3 narcotics = 7 dollar copay for generics per 30 days

Watching primetime tv with your girlfriend while semicoherent = priceless
(anotherlogan and the whit he shites, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 3:04, 2 replies)

Some people
use cigarette smoke to cover up the smell of weed...I use weed to cover up the smell of cigarettes.



Sorry for posting so much lately, I usually space posts out more but b3ta was the only thing that could save me from work today...
(BrainSurgerysFun, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 1:57, Reply)

The most outrageous excuse I ever made
I was 16, currently enjoying my first relationship. Given my lack of experience with the opposite sex, I had no idea of the pain and anger that would result in my failing to call my girlfriend at a certain pre-confirmed time.

Lounging in my bedroom, watching TV on a windy winter's night, my irate girlfriend called up to ask why I hadn't called earlier that evening when I'd said I would. I could tell from her tone that she was murderously angry.

Thinking quickly, and looking out of the window I told her that I would have called, but for the fact that the evening's strong gales had blown down a tree in our garden, and my Dad and I had spent the last few hours tying it down so it didn't blow away. My story was so outrageously and obviously false, there was no way - in my girlfriend's mind - I could be lying. I got away with it.
(Fuiru Sting, where is thy death?, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 1:22, Reply)

Late at night
I like putting the volume on my laptop right up, putting it right next to the wall separating my bedroom and my neighbour's bedroom and putting on the dirtiest, loudest porn ever so I seem like a sex goddess.
(reducedfatLOLcat, Sat 12 Jul 2008, 0:34, 1 reply)

Well....
No darling its ok I don't want to spend the night out on the town lets save money and stop in together. Oh, you class sitting in front of the TV watching Big Brother as a decent night in together, thats ok I'm happy to sit here on the laptop......what do you mean thats being antisocial, you are the one whos wanting to watch a bunch of retards sit in a house doing bog all!!!!

Grabs nearby Guiness can
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 23:56, 2 replies)

URGENT - £15 gazillion transfer
My fellow B3tans, I have found myself in a bit of a pickle, and I have a plea to make:


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


Dear Sir or Modem

How are you and your family. You look nice. I am urgently need your help - my father, a wealthy Scottish chip shop owner, had massive empire of chip shops worth 36 quadrillion British sterling pounds. He has been murdered by his business associates, his body was found in one of the deep-fat friers, and I fear I may be next.

I write to you, urgently, as I know you are a good person, even though I have never met you before in my life. I urgently need to transfer 15 gazillion pounds sterling British, into your, account as my late father's evil associates will be looking for it. I may not have mentioned, but this is urgent.

In return for your assistance in this sincere business, I would urgently give you 15% commission and a can of Irn Bru, for sitting on your arse and doing nothing. In order to transfer the funds, I urgently require your bank details, credit card numbers, date of birth, address, starsign, and pets names. I also require a copy of your passport and a blood sample. You can urgently contact me on [email protected]. But please, hurry!! My father's friends are almost upon me!!

I am urgently require your discretion in this matter, and I await your response urgently. May our Lord bless you and your family



P.S This is urgent
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 23:49, 4 replies)

Mean co-workers
I work in a very small office and get along well with everyone, mostly...everyone except a girl I will call Mrs. Square. She has been glaring at me and huffing in my direction all week long, being very passive agressive to the point where if I were to confront her on her behavior she could just bat her eyes and say, "WHAT are you talking about?!" If it weren't for b3ta, I would probably have quit this job a long time ago and sought out something a little more intellectually stimulating, like flipping burgers. But I digress. It is her job to take out the garbage. My boss didn't feel like shelling out money for a janitor so he pays her an extra $200/month to take out trash and vaccuum. She complains about the task loudly, though I could get on QUITE nicely on the extra cash for a paltry half hour of work a month. Anyway, I have had it. I am tired and cranky and it has been a long week. I just approached the big trash can in the middle of the office and, without anyone seeing me, dumped the following contents: a half a pot of week-old coffee, old Italian dressing that had past the point of smelling delicious a month ago, a hardened and crusy liquid mixture I found in the back of the refridgerator and, just for proper sloshing, a big glass of water. When she is taking out the trash I am going to have to pretend to be just as disgusted as she is while inside I am going HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!

Am I hopelessly immature? I also like to pretend that the telephone connection has gone bad for annoying customers and simply hang up on them and go outside for a smoke.
(BrainSurgerysFun, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 21:09, 7 replies)

My father...
He grew up in the 50's in the slums of Goodmayes, in north London. Rather than move into petty crime and so on he found God and went to the seminary, where he excelled. At about the age of 19 he thought "Hmm, what a load of cobblers -this- is" and quit to emigrate to Canada with all his meagre savings rolled up in his sock. Half of this he spent on motels around Toronto in just a few days, while looking for a job. "This is looking serious." he though to himself. "You'd better find a job sharpish old son." So he strolls into a recruiting session at Noranda Mines with a typewritten CV boasting PhDs in both Geology and Economics, and gets given overall responsibility for output in Nova Scotia. Apparently he was quite good at it; he quit after a couple of years, bought a red Mustang and drove it to Alaska for giggles.
(Whizzer, Fri 11 Jul 2008, 20:21, 2 replies)