Follow my wavy lines back to 2001
It's a few days before my 16th birthday and my dad has kindly overshadowed the big event by dropping dead. Attention seeking to the last, we later found out; the daft bastard downed a couple too many aspirin and half a bottle of vodka in an attempt to make my mum feel guilty for starting divorce preceedings after 16 years of increasing violence and misery. Instead of hospitalising him and tormenting her as he'd intended, he had a heart attack in his sleep (c'est la vie..or mort, possibly?)

I was on a school residential at the time (a story in itself) and so after having had the news broken to me by my IT teacher and speaking to my hysterical mother on the phone, it was decided that I would stay at the summer camp to avoid being involved in all the various gruesome bits of funeral organising. A very strange week passes, and a bemused young berk heads homewards to face the music. The funeral came and went, during which my elderly gran let out such a long, rumbling cheek-trembler of a fart that it sounded like the first few bars of 'The Last Post', a fitting tribute to her odious guff of a son and which had me laughing so hard I had to pretend to be sobbing. But that isn't the guilty laugh to which this post refers.

A week or so later and my mum and I went to pay our dues to my father's drinking buddies, a sorry bunch of bar-proppers, drunkards and reprobates, most of whom had been asked not to attend the funeral for fear of upsetting my nan. I knew most of them quite well, having spent great quantities of my formative years in my parents local. Naturally, they were all hammered and loudly bemoaning my father's passing. This went on for some hours. Afternoon stretched in to tea-time, and tea-time in to the evening. At first I itched to go and play pool, something, anything to stop the day dragging (I was peremptorily called back and told not to be disrespectful) but eventually they were too drunk to notice I was gone. I came back after a while - there's only so many games of pool you can play on your own - and decided to beg the housekeys off my mother, pleading fatigue and grief. One of them, espying my return, patted my hand and said "'E was a good man, your dad. We all miss him. 'S a shame he can't be here tonight'.

Neglecting in my outrage to mention that they wouldn't be here tonight reminiscing if my dad had been there, what with them having his send off, and secure in the knowledge that my dad was a cunt of the first order, I snapped, deadpan: 'Well, his ashes are in the car boot. I can fetch him in if you want, but I doubt it'll make you feel better'.

Immediate hush: the entire pub fell silent. Our table was a picture postcard of a dozen or so identical faces gaping, eyes popping, jaws dropped, like a multitude of horrified bowling balls.

'Oh fuck', thought I. 'I've upset a pubful of drunken nutters and my dad's drinking mates are going to lynch me. Nobody's wished me a bloody happy birthday, either'. I couldn't help it. I laughed. I howled until I thought I'd puke. I laughed so fucking hard I honestly feared I'd rupture something. Slowly, other people started to giggle until pretty much all the regulars were roaring as hard as I was. Then I fucked off home and I haven't been back since.

I felt guilty as hell about it then but I certainly don't now - that laugh was 16 miserable years in the making. Cheers dad.
(berk, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 11:28, 4 replies)

Ok, so I love b3ta, and find myself guiltily laughing at most posts.
Yet when I hear about football crowds chanting about Raoul Moat and Derrick Bird www.metro.co.uk/news/835587-newcastle-united-fans-slammed-for-raoul-moat-chants, and the Facebook group “RIP Raoul Moat you Legend”- I find it horrifying.

I went to Latitude Festival the other weekend where there were two alleged rapes. Back home and logged onto Facebook, I noticed one of my friends* status was “Awesome festival, awesome friends, awesome music, awesome rape”. I think what I found so shocking about this was that one of the victims was a 19 year old girl from Norwich, and the guy who wrote the status is in his early 20s from Norwich. How does he know that out of his 600 +friends on Facebook- one of them doesn’t in some way know the victim, or one of her friends or family?

I just can’t believe that people can so publicly jeer and almost "big-up" the kind of people who murder and rape innocent people- sometimes it scares me… :-(

My conscience is very confused… I can't figure out why I like b3ta, but get angry/scared at the other things.

But I liked the quote that someone posted by Chris Morris- that there is comedy in every tragic situation- but the joke needs to be worth telling…


*went to school with and wouldn’t have him on friend list if he wasn’t living with my brother.
( awayfromthenumbers, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 10:24, 16 replies)

FML
Sometimes, this website depresses me more than an appropriate simile can describe. However, sometimes some of them are incredibly funny- for example:

"Today, I was helping my mom with our horse stable. I was done with my work and leaned up against a wall to talk to her. All of the window shutters are suppose to be attached to the wall, I leaned under the only one that wasn't. The 50lb shutter came down and hit me in the face."
( jim_bob can herd cats., Mon 26 Jul 2010, 9:50, 1 reply)

Wee Hee Wee Hee
I've only started doing this recently, but....

The gf and I had been down at the local, just social drinking with the regulars, but as you get entwined into the bar props sad lives it does make yours sound a bit better.

The pub has two sets of toilets, one at the bar end and one past the pool tables at the other end. The 'cleaner' / local sop had already informed us blokes that the gents at the bar were out of order - and he couldn't a) be arsed to sort them b) would fall over if he got off his stool, so we would have to trudge to the other end of the pub (almost 30m!) to strangle the snake.

The pub was heading towards the usual 'lock in' for us regs and the remaining public were being ushered out of the doors.

The gf needed to powder her nose and I wanted a huge piss to top up the North Sea. I whinged to her that I would have to venture to the 'druggie' bog where the really big spiders held the toilet seat up in a web at least an inch think. She could see my bottom lip trembling at the thought so took my hand and led me into the ladies at the bar end.

Cor!! Carpet! Locks on the doors that worked and loo rolls that had not been pissed on. Brill I thought, a new world.

Sadly only two cubicles, but only one free, as some slouch of the public was in one, but as it was carpeted I could sneak in and share with the gf.

Good god, me thinks as she slips down a microthong. a) Where did that come from b) what's the point?

She starts and I've got the pressure of the Hoover dam straining to be let loose so urge her to 'get a sodding move on'. Bollocks, fucking hurry up!! Right, trousers down, tackle out and wave my mighty weapon at her face in a manner which says 'finish shaking your venus fly trap or get a facefull of hot recycled lager - now (please darling)'. This makes her giggle, but no idea why..... I can't shout at her as whoever was next door would hear, so waggle my man meat more vigorously and slapping her cheek.

This makes her laugh even more and grabs it (with both hands), opens her legs and pulls me down. To stop myself spanging my head on the shelf behind her I have to put both hands out and come to rest at an angle of @45 degrees, knob between her legs. I know what a cow feels like now, being milked.

I cant do anything but let the flow start and we pee together with her holding my todger against her landing strip. The giggles start like a couple of school kids and we can't stop. My stream is like a firehose and it briefly slips out of her hands. 'Ooo' she says, 'right on my clit' which she seems to like, and proceeds to angle it where she wants. I'm in fits of giggles now and my feet start slipping on the carpet (remember the angle) as its already a minute of torential gush on her gash.

Finally the flow ebbs and she let's go, so a quick waggle of the weapon against the inside of her thighs and I'm fit for another few pints. She's ready too so we both fall back into the bar, laughing our tits off. We calm enough to order a round when a mid age woman walks out of the ladies and looks around at who's left in the pub. As my gf is the only other female on the fun side of the bar, she gives her a filthy look, tuts and marches out of the doors. Cue (sorry Hurricane) fits of laughter from the both of us, crying, with the regs looking at us as though we were a couple of loons!!

The gf got a bit 'itchy' a few days afterwards so is off to the clinic today. I still laughed at her.

That'll teach her!
(Suck it and Sea, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 9:21, 2 replies)

If there's one thing I'm guilty of, it's inappropriate laughing.
It happens to me all the time. I can't help it, and often end up feeling pretty bad about it. I'm a bit of a softy and hate to hurt people's feelings, so laughing right in some poor unfortunate person's face is a bit of a drawback.

But sometimes I just can't help it.

Many years ago, I had been dragged to the shops with my ex. She was busilly rooting around in Boots looking for whatever it was she used to smear on her face to stop her evil soul peeping through, so I busied myself staring blankly at beauty products. And then this poor man shambled into my line of sight.

I have no idea what disability this poor fellow had, but there he was, bravely struggling along the aisle towards me. He was pulling off the prize winning entry to the world's silliest walk competition and gurning away as he went, and my brain just imploded. For a split second, I thought he was doing the funny walk for a laugh, but a tiny little part of my brain kicked in just in time to stop me pointing and laughing out loud. It was, however, too late to stop myself from completely cracking up. It was going to happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it, so I bravely collapsed sideways out of the aisle with my hand clamped over my mouth, knocking items from shelves as I went.

The look my ex gave me when I told her why I had tears streaming down my face! Utter disgust. After the initial shock had died down, I felt absolutely disgusted with myself too.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 2:24, 1 reply)

The train game- my dull contribution. ^-^
Yes this isn't as bad as laughing at children injuring themselves, nor as funny, but is a tale of the time the whole class ridiculed my methods and how we got the last laugh.

At school our history teacher came up with what we knew as The Train Game. This was great fun. You formed "companies" with your friends and each company was given a set amount of money and shares. Then in a battle of an auction you bidded for railway links between towns all over the UK. The smart groups paid high for linking lines. The daft or bored groups maybe paid out everything for one of two. Then there was my group. Who bought all the lines nobody wanted aaaaall over the UK and not connecting at any point.

After you'd done this you sold your shares. We bought our own shares. Except for Kate who bought her boyfriend's. Then, using an equation, you calculated how much profit your lines were making and how much your shares were worth.

I was left in charge of the equating. This was not a good idea. When I revealed my results the teacher wandered over and proceeded to laugh heartily at our group, as did then the entire class when he revealed to them that we were so in the red we were actually paying our customers to use our trains.

As he wandered away Claire from the smart group nicked my paper saying I'd done it wrong and the game proceeded until it was time to announce the winners.

The group at the back of the class was the typical ned/chav lot who sat bored and bone idle waiting for the day they could leave school, which they all did. Unfortunately someone in the class had pulled a prank on them and instead of writing their name on the ticket when they bought shares, wrote our group's name. All would have been fine if they weren't so whiney that Katy started to giggle. They were now stuck with our shares, except they weren't ours at all and now they had no shares. The teacher saw this damned laugh of hers and awarded them some of our shares after all, which really ended up worse for them...

Until Claire pointed out we were making millions and our group won every prize available. We had the last laugh at the whole class and I'm still owed a packet of chocolate coins today!
( vix0r was not Matthew on, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 1:08, Reply)

THIS:
Has probably been posted before:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=23eSjQ53Kco

Okay, yes he is a mindless yob destroying property and getting his just deserts, but he might well have lost a leg through this which is not only an inconveniance to him, but costs us in disabillity allowance. Still, fucking hillarious though, the commentary from his pall, the pure inevitability of the finale, and the fact that he has no one to blame but himself. It's almost like watching the coyote splat into the canyon wall :P
(Spiked_Rycroft The Prodigal Son, Mon 26 Jul 2010, 0:45, 6 replies)

V.recently.
Donkey.

Paragliding.
( Squid Ink should be stored upright in a cool, dark place, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 23:00, 1 reply)

A bloke I worked with always had something to say when I came in looking a bit worse for wear following a night out.
One morning following a particularly vicious night of drinking I get the snidey "look at the state of you, you look like crap...etc".
As he was just finishing a night shift I come back with the not very imaginative "your wife didn't seem to mind it much when I left her this morning" , to which he replied with a tear welling in his eye "she died last year you prick".
The only thing I could think to say was ".....thought her feet were a bit cold!".
He never spoke to me again after that.
(The Velour Fog has a formidable scent that stings the nostrils, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 22:57, 1 reply)

Brighton
I live near the Downs Crematorium.

My boyfriend giggles every time we walk past the sign.
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 22:48, 5 replies)

Occasionally...
I serve on our jewellery counter at work. It is unusual but it does happen.

One day I happen to be serving when two gentlemen walk in. They are both very jolly, rather rotund and look rather similar. Oh and they are very, very gay.

I was happy to serve them with a selection of wedding bands which they were looking at and I asked a fateful question... do you know what sizes you are.? One of them replied...

"Oh we know the sizes, we spent yesterday evening comparing rings".

SOMEHOW I managed to control myself but serving through gritted teeth with a ventriliquist's dummy style smile lasted only until they had left and I was in the stockroom hooting like a hyena.
(elfinpunk Touching Cloth Since, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 21:12, 4 replies)

My shoe! My shoe!
There is a fundamental rule that you should not laugh at your children when they're upset. That makes me a bad parent. I cannot help but laugh when my son wails "My shoe! My shoe!" from the backseat of the car when one falls off mid-journey. *Those* episodes of Blue Peter are clearly deeply etched on my consciousness.
(crustyonion, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 19:30, 1 reply)

A few years ago
I had a part time job in a small petrol station in the middle of nowhere. One slow evening, after not having seen a customer for about 2 hours, in walks a fairly normal looking chap who proceeds to the magazine shelves.
Now like all good garages this one had a particularly fine selection of top shelf adult reading material and after a few minutes scanning the titles, our man makes his decision and strides confidently toward me and places his soon to be purchased copy of Escort Reader's Wives XXX Special on the counter. Nothing unusual or funny here as I had become quite used to people coming in late at night just for that special purchase. Upon scanning the item into the till I asked if there was anything else he wanted. He looked up at the shelves behind me and replied 'Yes, I'll take a tube of Bonjela too please'.
It was at this point something started to tick in my head and as I turned and reached toward the shelf, my mind caught up with me having processed the customer's purchase.... one magazine packed with images of the country's finest wives and girlfriends showing all that they have to offer and one tube of clear, sticky, slimy, slippery aniseed flavoured gloop.
My imagination then filled in the gaps and the reasons as to why these 2 items would be purchased together and at that moment the penny dropped. As I turned back toward the customer, I couldn't help myself. I let out a snort. Followed by a cough to try and disguise the snort. Followed by choking and spluttering until I could hold it in no longer, bursting in to uncontrolable fits of hysterical laugher and having to run out the back of the shop to regain my composure.
Meanwhile, my bewildered customer had decided to leave the shop, only made known to me by the buzzer sound of the door as it closed after him, leaving his items behind on the counter and me creased up in the stockroom cackling like a complete loon.

Long time lurker, 1st post. Apologies for nothing. *POP*
(munkyspunk, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 19:04, 9 replies)

Not sure but
Back in the days when I got QTS, my first job was at a very middle class school, where there were 99% of parents were happy. But there was always one....

First lesson of AS maths, the class asks about the new teacher, where you from etc, and I tell them that this is my first job. One lad pipes up "Are you qualified?", "of course" I respond, whilst secretly thinking what a dick..

Now the next day my head of department gets a phone call from the father of this boy. He basically implied that a new teacher should not be teaching his son. My boss laughed him off and just said "You always get wankers..."

Now, I thought it would go away. But for the rest of the year, he is a twat. No homework, no effort in lessons; detentions go missed and there is no support from home. At parents evening his dad refuses to talk to me, his sons teacher and goes straight to the Head and tells him I've taught his son wrong. Father has employed an ex-teacher, about 70, and my methods are different. They are new, easier etc. I just get more and more depressed in teaching the class.

Now, AS module exams in June. The Lad wants to do medicne, so straight A's needed. I am invidulating the exam and I'm wandering around the room, and as I walk past him, I see he has done question 1 using the wrong equation. 0 marks. A chuckle starts. I wander around and pass him again when he is on Q4. Not only has he used the wrong numbers (x=5, question said 15), but again completely the wrong method; its actually the one he should have used in Q1. Q5 isn't even the right subject.

Now I can't help myself. I make the laugh snort, and have to quickly get out into the corridor. I am laughing so loudly that the other invidualtor thinks its group of kids and comes out to find me on the floor. I regain calm with about 5 mins left and collect up the papers.

As he walks out, he just says "Well, I think I've got well over 90%, no help from you!". At this point I laugh like Brian Blessed and he walks off...

He got 11%.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 17:53, 11 replies)

babies in party hats
It's the bit when they pull the elastic out from under their chin to see what it is. Then let go. The look of shock followed by the crying gets me every time.
(ralphseviltwin, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:32, Reply)

Paris
Sitting on a bateau mouche (tourist boat) on the river in Paris, a man came in carrying his young son on his shoulders. The ceiling was quite low, with steel beams holding up the clear roof. It was clear to the whole boat that the kid was going to bash his head on the beams, so people started calling in various languages and pointing.

The man didn't react and, sure enough, spang the kid hit his head on a beam, without the father noticing. Cue more calling and pointing, the man turns around in confusion and, spang, the kid bashes his head again. I laughed, along with half the boat.
(Smale is stuffed, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:30, 1 reply)

Anne Franks house
Why did she have to hide in Amsterdam?!?

I was on a long weekend trip with my girlfriend of the time and her friend. We had been hoping to see the Cult play, but as always, they fell out with each other and cancelled their tour at the last minute.

My girlfriends friend didn't smoke, and was very keen that we did a few cultural things in the daytime. Me and my girlfriend however viewed this as a trip to the pot smoking capital of the world and felt that we couldn't miss out on every opportunity for a quick spliff.

Having realised we were running a bit short, we popped into the next coffeeshop we saw and purchased a healthy amount of AK47, rolled a particularly large joint, smoked it all and then continued on our way to Anne Franks house at the request of her friend.

If you've ever been there, you are probably aware that the first room contains a screen showing a film with a bit of background on a continuous loop. We stopped here to watch the film and I very quickly realised it was in Dutch. My girlfriend and her friend were stood watching and listening, with me thinking they were crazy since neither of them spoke Dutch. Shaking my head, I wandered over to the translation posts, picked up a receiver and pressed the English button. This was great! I could understand every word! There was a slight problem though. After a minute, I realised that I was hearing in stereo, which isn't right for a telephone receiver. I slowly lowered it and realised that the commentary had been in English all along. Just as the film was telling us about the capture of Anne Frank, I burst out in uncontrollable hysterics!!

I couldn't control myself for the whole of the visit. I got many very dirty looks as I laughed my way around the house, occasionally to the point where I couldn't even stand up straight and was clutching my stomach due to cramp. Through all of this, I was actually interested in everything I saw, and read all of the exhibits, but externally my body was stuck in a fit of hysterical laughter.

I don't smoke any more, but even if I did, I would never make the mistake of combining a serious place with AK47 in high doses!
( more balanced than jeremy beadle It wasn't me..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:25, 3 replies)

I'm really not pleased with myself for laughing at this...
I really wish I didn't find it funny, but I can't help it!!!


( more balanced than jeremy beadle It wasn't me..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:14, 24 replies)

Laughing at small children when they fall over
...Watching them realise "Ouch that hurts" queue open mouth no sound... followed by a loud and high pitched cry...

Quality...
(Tangerine_Avenger, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:09, Reply)

Playing with fire
I went to a posh boarding school, and one saturday, whilst sat in my bedroom, the fire alarm went off. The proper drill on these occasions is to wait a minute and then wander slowly out, knowing full well that somebody has set the timer on the toaster a bit too high and then wandered off and got distracted and the alarm will probably stop before you get a chance to evacuate.

On this occasion the alarm continued, so I opened my door to see flames in the bathroom opposite. This gave me an instant hit of adrenaline and I rushed to grab the fire extinguisher and put out the fire. Somebody had set fire to one of those hanging down roll of towel dispenser thingies and it had flared up quite well!

Having extinguished the fire, I ran downstairs and outside to where everyone was congregated to be ticked off the list. When I stepped through the door, the adrenaline was still pumping, and I was shaking slightly. As soon as I took a few steps away from the building though, for some reason I just couldn't stop laughing, largely from relief. This did not look good in the eyes of the housemaster or any other teachers who were there.

I spent a lot of time in trouble at school, so bursting out in hysterical laughter immediately after a fire that was clearly started by somebody was not a good idea!! It took weeks of convincing people that it wasn't me before anyone was willing to believe me! In the end it was accepted that I really wasn't stupid enough to set things on fire indoors, and if I were going to take up a career in arson, starting a fire outside my own door was an unlikely starting point!
( more balanced than jeremy beadle It wasn't me..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 16:06, Reply)

Just when I thought a celeb hadn't died in a while,
One does right on cue.
(PassTheKhat, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 14:29, 1 reply)

Necrotic leg ulcers and faeces....oh my!
Why anyone still agrees to work with me on the ambulance is beyond me.

Me and my crewmate (different one from previous stories) were called to a rather nice house on a doctor's urgent. This differs from a normal 999 call as a GP has assessed the patient and arranged an admission, often directly to a ward or assessment unit rather than A&E.

On arrival at the house, we were directed upstairs by the patient's daughter. Of the GP, there was no sign, other than a hastily scrawled letter that looked like a spider had taken some bad acid and freaked out on a page of watermarked A4. The letter intimates that Doris (not her real name) was off her legs (i.e. unable to walk. She hadn't grown bored of her lower limbs) with ? cellulitis (skin infection) and secondary infective diarrhoea.

Nice

I was driving and my crewmate was attending. Despite trying to sell the job back to me as requiring my paramedic skillz, I told him to man the fuck up and find the patient. As we approached the bottom of the stairs, a smell assailed our nostrils. No simile is going to approach the full horror of this, but readers of the Discworld books will be aware of Foul Ole Ron and his Smell. I think we were dealing with a similar level. Imagine if an ammonia tanker collided with a slurry farm on a hot summer's day, with a few rotting beavers thrown in. Magnify by 100x.

As we ascended the stairs, the smell only worsened. In fact, as we reached the top of the stairs, I swear to God it had grown legs and was squealing "mummy". Both me and crewmate were holding back the tides of vomit which were marshalling and requesting clearance from the oesophogeal sphincter control towers of our stomachs.

Long story short, poor old Doris was not very well, bless her. Her legs had ulcerated and had started rotting, and she was covered in layers of her own shit. We cleaned her up as best we could, wrapped her in a blanket and popped her in a carry chair. I took the top end and crewie took the bottom (nearest her feet).

As we carried Doris down the stairs, she farted mightily. Firstly, this smelt like a Nazgul's foreskin, but secondly, as she did it, a little bit of poo came out, all over my crewmates arms. Doris must have thought an earthquake was occuring as my crewmate desperately tried not to drop her, whilst my shoulders started shaking with paroxysms of silent laughter.

We got her onto the vehicle and my crewmate cleaned off his unsolicited fake bake, and off we drove to hospital. Now, what a cruel, sick and depraved person would have done at this point would have been to put the heating on and closed the sliding door between the cab and the back of the ambulance.

As I said, a cruel person would have done that. And yep, it seems I was such a person. By the time we reached the hospital, my crewmate was looking ready to self harm. I still hadn't stopped laughing.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 12:42, 4 replies)

oldie but goodie
www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcNvoIOGihI
(BigAndyBee, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 12:13, Reply)

Not me but...
...Chris Morris.

Went to see Four Lions at the Cornerhouse in Manc, followed by a Q&A with the man himself.

When asked did he ever think he'd gone too far with his jokes. To paraphrase, he said that there is comedy to be found in any situation, no matter how tragic, but the joke has to be worth telling.

He cited seeing his grandma get run over by the hearse that was carrying his grandad as the first time he realised this.


We salute you.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 11:24, 2 replies)

Relevant repost.
I used to be an altarboy.

So, the priest at my school parish was an old Irish chap by the name of Father Michael Corry. He was a thoroughly nice person (so no paedo jokes here I'm afraid), although he did used to pat you on the head when he came to visit and nearly crush your skull in doing so. He was quite a large chap also and I don't think he knew his own strength. As Altarboys we used to get paid a small amount of money for serving at funerals. Usually a fiver from the Undertaker, but back then my pocket money was only £1.50 a week, and so it was like Christmas had come early.

Anyway, that's not the story I wanted to tell. The story I wanted to tell was about the time we were serving one of said funerals, and it got to the Eternal Rest part of the mass.

For all you non-catlick types, the prayer is as follows:

"Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord,
And Let perpetual light shine upon them".

I have already mentioned that Father Corry was rather an old chap, and one of his many quirks (apart from sending schoolchildren to hospital with affectionate cranial injuries) was that he would sometimes get his words mixed up. Sometimes in a spoonerism kind of way, sometimes in a confusing words that sound similar kind of way. It was on a rare occasion such as this that he did both. And thusly:


"Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord,
And Let perpetual light shine upon them".


became


"Eternal rest grant unto them O Lord,
And let perpetual shite lie upon them".




So I can now rightfully take my place in hell as someone who burst into an uncontrollabe fit of laughter at the funeral of a man I've never met.
( PMGT -Bacon., Sun 25 Jul 2010, 11:19, Reply)

Visiting Castles
I went with a group of friends last summer to a few castles etc. in Somerset. Most of them were quite nice, pay a pound to get in affairs run by volunteers. Towards the end of the day we reached a Tudor house with nice gardens and go inside for a quick look around. Before we get more than a step inside the door, the 200-year-old volunteer grabs us.

"Wait and I'll give you the introduction." he said, and started talking about metalwork and the war and his grandpa, who worked here back when he was a lad. We nod politely and smile and check our watches, when another hapless group of victims walk in. Without breaking his stride, the man goes right back to the beginning of his story- "I'll just let you catch up,"- and we have to listen to the whole thing again. Nearing the end, we start to look hopeful when a third group of people come in. Stuck in some kind of rut, the man starts his story again.

We all try not to groan and don't look at each other, because the second group has just realised what's going on and have a look close to pure horror, and the third group are eyeing the growing crowd with suspicion, and it's obvious no-one's listening to this old dear. A fourth group of people start to approach, and L suddenly makes a strangled shriek and doubles over, clutching her stomach. Without another word she runs outside and we can hear her crying with laughter. The old man looks at her husband, who shrugs and deadpans: "Must have been something she ate. Keep talking."

The man smiles and (finally!) finishes his story. We go into the house and find L, who is still laughing uncontrollably. She calms down as we look around the rooms, and then realises that to get out of the house she'll have to walk past the old dear again. She hides at the top of the stairs, watching him in the hope that he'll nod off, but he doesn't. We take pity on her and walk out with her. We smile at the man as we walk past.

"Thank you! It was very interesting!" we call out to him as we walk by, making him beam happily. Beside us, L starts shaking with suppressed laughter. When we got outside she was actually in hysterics.

I don't know if it's inappropriate, but that's the lengths some people go to to try not to laugh at inappropriate moments...
(Sivvus trolley collision in the fruit aisle led to a jam, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 11:18, Reply)

Your pal might be going out with a girl of Caribbean descent
This is fine. I'm not averse to a spot of miscegenation.

You might run into each other near college and start chatting about her and how they're getting on.

This is also fine. Chat is good for you.

He might mention that her family lives in one of the poshest parts of the city.

Again, perfectly fine. It's not like she's a snob or anything.

He could, furthermore, point that this is because her parents are absolutely minted, and that she reaps the benefits.

Jealous, but still, it does happen (although not, sadly, to me).

He could, let us say, utter the words "Now, I'm not saying I'm a gold digger." with the most evil grin in the world plastered across his coupon.

Dear sweet Jebus do I know the feeling of laughing even harder because you know you really, really shouldn't be.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 9:51, Reply)

When you tire of Kitten Fail, you tire of life.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=8szwlCnKUbY

Don't get me wrong, I love animals, I really do. But I can watch this repeatedly until I am crying tears of laughter. I think it's the satisfying *thud-bonk* that does it for me...
(Draco Rattus ate all the pies on, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 9:33, 2 replies)

More wedding stuff
'The cat's PJs' just reminded me...

My father died, suddenly, at the end of last year (don't worry, the story gets more upbeat from here), and my uncle was getting married a few days after, 3 days before dad's funeral.

I had been warned that the ceremony wasn't going to be 'the norm' some months previous. A live band was mentioned, food (of course), and the word pagan may have been slipped in there, but not exaggerated.

We turn up at the location (not in the most jovial mood as you may presume) to find a nice old lodge-type building (imagine wooden beams, high chapel-like roof, large windows, small kitchen in corner - you get the idea), then get inside to see several people dressed in colourful gowns creating a large circle in the middle of the floor with dried leaves, material, twigs etc.

I start to get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach and am somewhat relieved to find our table is nicely tucked away in a corner. My close relatives join us and i attempt to position my chair out of direct view of the centre of the circle as i have a good idea what going to come.

And sure enough, it turns out the bride is a full-on pagan. Witch and all. The woman i saw earlier creating the circle starts wittering on about its representation, the bride and groom come in and people are dancing around them. i'm having difficulty containing myself, biting my bottom lip hard. My uncle's face (not really appearing to know what was going on) didn't help matters.

My cousin turns to me, knowing i'd be finding this hard to stomach, and mouths 'Stone-Enge' and does a bit of air guitar.

This sets me off - i bite my lip even harder, but can't prevent an audible laugh escaping and get the expected bad looks off everyone. My mother looks at me like i've just shit in her gin and tonic, before i turn this laughter into a 'i'm still really upset about my dad' routine behind my hands. Which i was, of course.

I must have worked this quite well as it appears i was forgiven. We made a quick exit soon after the food, though.

Length - about 2(pie*)r


*the pie symbol wouldn't show.
( Another_tragic_case wished he hadn't eaten all the cake, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 9:01, 2 replies)

Political correctess gone MAD!
Mad I tells you :) My son's school has, as do most in Australia, a government-funded committment to our aboriginal heritage.

To this end, they have the National Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Week.

NATSI week. I shit you not.

It was pretty hard keeping it together when the local elder for hire was giving his sppech, telling us how much all the NATSI people have suffered...
(pizzaforcat ate some cement and HARDENED the FUCK UP on, Sun 25 Jul 2010, 8:47, 3 replies)