So - I was visiting my Irish in-laws, one of whom has just had a sprog with her German husband.
I bought her little kid one of those little plastic oversized Australian rat things from a local toy shop as a welcome.

Unbeknownst to me, on a recent trip to Oz, said husband had had a rather frightening and psychologically-damaging encounter with one of these creatures, and as I presented my gift, I saw my Eire Tomy Roo, Debitz aging.

Fuck off.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Wed 13 Mar 2013, 9:25, 2 replies)

darwinawards.com/darwin/darwin1993-04.html
( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Wed 13 Mar 2013, 7:38, 1 reply)

Im always getting my lab caught in places
Stupid over sized lab :(
(shezam slouching towards nirvana., Wed 13 Mar 2013, 7:07, 8 replies)

We used to get a copy of the mining incident reports for Western Australia, when I was a rock licker in the gold mines
It made pretty good trajicomedy reading. Mostly guys breaking their ankles climbing into their vehicles of a morning, but also the occasional death. One that caught our eyes and did the rounds was a bloke who worked nights in the crushing mill. Mainly working alone, he'd taken to masturbating by holding his cock against the moving conveyer belt. A rather high-risk pleasure, one night he'd caught himself and the belt had torn his scrotum open. Rather than rushing off to the sick bay, he'd manfully stapled his sack closed himself. However, this had quickly got infected and swelled up, whereupon he'd finally decided to see the onsite doctor. The Doc, who was also the one who wrote up the incident, removed the staples and then had to inform the poor bloke that one of his balls was missing.
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Wed 13 Mar 2013, 1:49, 6 replies)

Shambo, Emvee, Phantom and Ringofyre
have nothing to do with this post and I really don't have anything unpleasant to say about any of them - deep down, we're all loveable - but it seems people are mainly interested in tribute wank-off threads, so I thought I'd see how this one went.
( 4Q just lurking, Wed 13 Mar 2013, 0:34, 15 replies)

Having Dr. Sham-bollocks back is a real pain in the arse.
If I had to describe the pain it would be akin to shoving a pickled onion up your date.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Tue 12 Mar 2013, 22:36, 6 replies)

No pain involved...
But it is about my gonads.

So, aged sixteen, my dad was going on and on to me about whether I could pull my foreskin back. One of his ancestors had died of knob rot because he was too embarrassed to tell anyone, and my dad also had loads of problems with his cock, so I suppose it was on his mind. (You've heard of athlete's foot - well, for years my dad had athlete's cock. I think he had toadstools growing out of the end of it.)

Anyway.

So one day I tried to pull said foreskin back. It was really tight, but I managed it. By this time, the end of my cock was the size of a golf ball, the rest had the diameter of a frankfurter and the end was getting purple. Try as I might, I couldn't get it back.

The following day, I went to the doctor. He tugged at my cock for ages, and gave up. He phoned the hospital, and if I remember correctly, got me in the following day. (This obviously wasn't the UK, otherwise I'd still be on an NHS waiting list to get onto the waiting list.)

So I went to the hospital. The specialist was an old bloke. He asked me to drop my trousers and pants. After taking one look, he invited me across the corridor to another room. Here I had to lie on a table thing. This is where it gets surreal. There were two (female) nurses present. I swear one was chewing gum, the other was sucking on a lollipop. The old doc tugged like mad at my teenage love truncheon. One nurse removed the lolly from her mouth, and said "Do you want any lubricant?" "Nah" said the doc, still yanking on my pork sword. Honestly, it was like a Channel 4 sitcom. In the end he succeeded - I can't remember whether there was a comedy "plop" noise or not.

He looked down and said "Hmm... that'll have to come off." For a split second, I thought he meant to amputate my willy.
That proved not to be the case, and the rest of the story is pretty boring.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 19:49, 6 replies)

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire
It was Christmas Eve 1999. I was sitting on my bed, watching the unusually large moon and smoking a joint made with Regal King Size tobacco and seriously gakky hash. Suddenly a large hot-rock fell from the cherry, straight through the fly in my boxer shorts and landed square on my ballbag. The thing was so big (the hot-rock, not my scrote), I was surprised they didn't have to send Bruce Willis and a dozen other pointless twats up in a rocket to drill it a new arsehole. Afterwards, I could play my junk like a fucking ocarina.
(hmsmajesty, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 19:12, 1 reply)

A friend of mine when we had finished our AS levels...
A quick pea from me...

After a moderately heavy night in Sloane Square was dared to jump from a street sign to a lamp post. Being a keen rock-climber and extreme sports enthusiast he happily obliged, mounting the sign and promptly launching himself to the lamp post. It had been raining.

He caught the lamp post with his hands and as he attempted to plant his feet onto it, they slipped either side. His nether-regions took a fairly hefty blow on the post and he collapsed on the floor, rather white and promptly had a feel down below. Pulls his hand from his trousers to be confronted with blood.

Oh dear.

We take him to hospital and call his parents. 2 hours later at 1.30am a rather disgruntled father arrives. 6 hours later my friend is attended to by doctors. (At this point i am lying clutching my stomach outside due to drinking roughly 7 cans of budget tesco red bull. )
He is promptly told he has ruptured his urethra and must be admitted. Catheter and codeine follow.

Now, the funny thing about rupturing your urethra is that if you get an erection, you bleed to death.
Never would one have thought that having beautiful nurses tending to your nether-regions could ever be a bad thing, but luckily he kept it under control.

The tube healed up eventually, but due to overdeveloped scar-tissue, he was unable to piss without enduring agony.
The NHS suggested two methods of surgery to correct this:

i)they slice it all the way down the middle and fix the problem before sewing up either side.
Ii)they slice it off completely at the point of problem, remove the tissue and reattach.

7 months later, (and sooo many man points), he has surgery to finally correct the issue with a private surgeon (funnily enough) who suggested keyhole surgery.

Length? Pretty impressive considering...
(Pingoo likes cheese, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 17:34, 5 replies)

More testicle action
I knew a bike mechanic who, whilst lifting an engine onto a truck caught his testicles between the truck and the engine. This is a bad place to put your testicles. It tore his ball bag and his testicles fell out. After being driven to hospital holding his precariously attached testicles the Dr's diagnosis was that 'his shopping had fallen out of it's bag'. Whilst the diagnosis was clumsy the treatment was down right barbaric, his ball bag was stapled back together(this needs three exclamation marks) !!!
He offered me a look, I declined.
p.s. his testicles took no long term damage (look away now as more exclamation marks are coming) !!!
( spingers, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 17:25, 3 replies)

Pole vaulting and the vaulted pole
When I was in high school I decided to try out for the pole vaulting squad. You didn't have to run as far as the long distance guys or do all the sprints that the sprinters did. Plus, the squad was filled with stoners and goog-offs. After a tough season of football, it seemed like the right fit.

I soon found out that it took a great deal of upper body strength and that if you couldn't run fast enough, you couldn't get enough force to bend the pole and propel yourself forward. Leg strengthening and sprints followed, much to my chagrin.

One day a number of us were vaulting, taking turns going over the bar at certain heights. I lined up, started down the path, planted well, drove well, had a good rock back and ended up with one leg on one side of the cross bar. We used to use metal cross bars that conveniently bent when struck. Some bright soul decided fiberglass would maintain it's shape longer so that's what I found myself on.

The crossbar bent downward; I started sinking and the pole I was clinging to started bending away from me. The cross bar bent more, the pole bent more. Suddenly, the cross bar flew heavenward, and the pole, capable of propelling a 160lb human upward, came back at me with a vengeance and fwacked me right in the seeds.

It was instant, blinding pain and I writhed on the pit for some time while the other vaulters berated me and told me to get out of the way. I somehow made it to my feet, blinking away black spots and walked, true cowboy style into the locker room. There, I dropped trou, hoisted myself up onto the drinking fountain and allowed the lovely cold water to flow over my battered balls until numb.

Everyone had a good laugh when I told them why I would be skipping the next few practices and although I don't remember any noticeable swelling, I worried for years that I would never reproduce.
( BrokenCoccyx doesn't mind if you grope on, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 17:04, 1 reply)

Help me.
I’ve got balls and that, and in my younger days have spent time in the company of young ladies who less charitable people than myself may describe as a right prick teases. I’ve even gone for whole days without any action. But I’ve never suffered actual physical pain, or the infamous ‘blue balls’.

Is this affliction something made up by desperate teens to pressurise the females into a bit of how’s yer father, or does it actually exist?
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Tue 12 Mar 2013, 16:23, 10 replies)

pfft
Needs more cunt kicking.
(magic the cat will someone please think of the kittens, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 13:26, 25 replies)

I was once walking through a field and caught my goolies when I stumbled on a gate.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 13:24, Reply)

"Believe nothing until it has been officially denied."
Claud Cockburn 1904-1981
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 11:17, 1 reply)

Too much information O_o
I was in my local boozer a few weeks ago, and chatting to the landlady's dad's new squeeze, Edna.

As old people are sometimes wont to do, she was telling me all about her family... and as old (and indeed young) people are sometimes also wont to do, she was giving me too much information, including this gem which, try as I might, I can't seem to forget:

"We supported my son when he was having a bad time. He was in a car accident, was badly injured, lost all his manhood and everything"

*curls up into a ball and weeps*
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 10:27, 2 replies)

Panic sets in,
We'd climbed the scaffolding on the front of the Sheldonian in Oxford to claim another new roof joint (oxford university roofs are surprisingly accessible, and garner great views) and had smoked a couple of spliffs and finished the bottles of beer we'd brought. Perfect, just time to climb down, run across to the Purple Turtle for a quick drink, and head home. We peer over the top to make sure of our route, and at the bottom of our climb, university security and a cop car. Bollocks. Don't really want to have to deal with this. Must be another way down. So we go exploring.
Perfect, one side of the building has a fire escape ladder stair thing. That'll do, once we're on the ground we'll sort the next stage, if it's a fire escape it must have a way out.
We clamber over a couple of bits of nice architecture and drop on the the stairs. Well, I drop on to the stairs, T drops one leg on to the stairs, and one not. Right on the rail. Right on his man undercarriage. The sort of screech that sends birds flying from their nests in films comes from his throat. And I panic. They must have heard that round the front. We've gotta run. But, after easing his errant leg on to the right side of the rail, all T can muster is a stumbling gate.
So we run/stumble down the stairs, towards a gate that I have convinced myself is open as, who locks the exit from a fire escape? The University of Oxford apparently.
It's not a huge fence, so I give the slowly recovering T a leg up, and scramble after him. I don't know what happenrd next, maybe I lost my grip, or it was wet, or whatever, but just as I am about to make it over, BOOM, balls meet gate. It's white hot agony. But somewhere, in the back of my mind I remember we're escaping. And I panic, adrenaline kicks in, and we're suddenly lead actors in a ballache - great escape. We sort of painfully run back round to the front, past the security van, and make our way up the broad and to Boozey victory at the PT. We make it at about 2, waved in by the bouncer who knows us, grab 2 bottles of beer each, and sit, drinking one, and cradling the ice cold second beer next to our slightly throbbing balls.
Victory.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Tue 12 Mar 2013, 2:18, 27 replies)

Never in the history of everything
has the phrase "not me, but a mate" been said with more relief.

Kids are always hurting themselves. Bones snap, skin is flayed off on sharp things, eyes come perilously close to being put out, and yet, years later, we remember so few of these brushes wit death or how they happened. Only the very worst ones, the ones that leave scars, or possibly bits not working any more, tend to stick around to become tales to tell the grandkids.

So, when one of these memories is not your own but someone elses, you know it must have been a bad one. My eyes still water and my legs still feel all wonky when I think of this.

Thankfully, for my own mental health, I wasn't there. The tale was told to me later on by my friend who had witnessed the sad event. For it was he and another mate of mine who had happily been playing at commandos or some such nonsense on summer day, when they decided to make an assault course. One of the obstacles involved climbing onto the shed, leaping and catching onto a branch and swinging over the fence to the park beyond. My friend did this and all went well. Then came the turn of my other mate. He ran along and made the leap for the branch.

It's probably a good time to mention that the fence was one of those horrible council affairs, you know the ones, like a row of thin stakes held together by wire. A nice long row of sharpened stakes with the innocent young goolies of my mate swinging by a few feet overhead.

Well, of course the branch snapped. You knew that was coming. My mate didn't, but just as he was discovering the branch was unsuitable to support his weight, he found he had many much greater problems, the most pressing of which was a sharp wooden pike being driven right up his biffin's bridge. At the time, it was described to me in the most gentle of terms as having "went right up his arse", but I later found it was much worse. It had missed his barking spider and nadger sack, and planted itself firmly twixt the two. My friend said he first "lifted himself off" the fence (a phrase which still makes me think I might pass out) and then proclaimed "I NEED TO GO HOME!" and proceeded to mince along the road to his house. My friend, understandably concerned with just having seen him being buggered by a garden fence, accompanied him, but decided it was best to beat a swift retreat when he got home, as our mate whipped his old man out and proceeded to shout for his mum as he was pissing blood everywhere.

Several days in hospital and presumably a fair amount of worry followed, but he made a full recovery, thankfully. It is to his credit that after he got home, he couldn't wait to tell us that a gorgeous nurse had toouched his knob, but he was gutted because it they had numbed it at the time.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 2:02, 2 replies)

lol i read Dice Man
by Luke Rhinehart. to be fair, the old lady in the charity shop gave me a funny look.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 1:33, 6 replies)

Dennis and the Corner
About a year ago my employer held a sexual harassment seminar. It seems one of the mouth-breathing Sales idiots had made yet another attempt to put his hand on as much of one of the rather friendly reception staff as possible, and a complaint was promptly made. Enter the HR drones, and for some reason this incident meant that the rest of us were sent on some idiotic "Sensitivity Seminar", or something like that. To add insult to injury the Sales group didn't even have to attend: "Stop Groping Your Colleagues, You Awful Disgust" apparently being deemed to complex a notion for them, and they were sent on a different seminar, presumably a crash course in "Walking And Breathing At The Same Time."

Before I go on, I do want to say I abhor sexual harassment, and I agree with the notion that the perpetrators should be encouraged to mend their ways. But what I do not understand is why this means that you need to punish a whole host of totally innocent people, including the victims of said harassment, by forcing them to give up their Saturday morning to a full round of condescension and downright creepiness.

For it seems that your average HR mindless, in their haste to correct the matter in as bureaucratic a manner as possible, doesn't stop to consider the possibility that, just because someone runs a sexual harassment seminar, doesn't mean that they themselves aren't a horrendous sex pest.

And so it was with Dennis. Short, fat and balding, he talked like a cross between Anne Widdecombe and Mr. Bean. In those hours 'twixt ten and three, when we weren't being put through a regimen of moronic "self actualisation" exercises and frankly creepy roleplaying scenarios, we were treated to a truly breathtakingly brazen array of gropings, pawings and feelings-up, as he clumsily pretended to manouvre us into the appropriate positions and stances for his "exercises". The HR minions missed all this; having introduced Dennis, they promptly fucked off, presumably to eat a few live kittens.

I was not pleased at all. I'd forgotten all about it and had launched myself on a proper Guinness bender the previous night, and had basically been mainlining coffee all day in an attempt to keep myself conscious.

When he wasn't feeling us up he was giving what I'm sure he thought were rousingly motivational speeches, pacing up and down the front of the lecture room at a substantial pace. It was during one of these scuttling orations that Dennis had a little calamity. Striding briskly forward, he suddenly stopped, his face slowly reddening, sweat beads forming on his brow. He puffed his jowls out as he looked down. He'd managed to walk straight into a tall metal waste-paper bin set next to the whiteboard. Dennis being a squat fellow, the sharp corner of said receptacle had met him squarely in the left bollock.

Time stopped. At last, the pain signal appeared to finally make its way to his brain, and he looked up, taking on a thousand-yard stare as the sweat tricked over his ruddy cheeks.

"WHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?????????????????," he pleaded.

That was too much for the room. We erupted in gales of laughter, none more so than me. Feeling truly wretchedly hungover, and with the memory of his hand burning its shame into my right buttock, I stood up and launched my verbal assault.

"HAHAHHAHA! HA! HAHAHA! Take that you fat pervert! You appalling revolting! It's no more than you deserve! Drink your lesson! Drink it down! That will teach you to STAY ABOUT FROM MY BIUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," I bellowed as my backside gave way to the rectal explosion that was last night's true comeuppance.

"AUGHHH?" I pleaded as my knees gave way to the laxated blast and I fell down, weeping into my own shame.

And that's why we don't have harassment seminars at work any more.

The following week I got chilli on my bellend oh that did not feel good I can tell you!
(Frank Snow, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 0:33, 6 replies)

Royal Lifesaving Society Bronze course
I was the youngest guy there. There was a point where you had to remove a drowned person from the pool by gripping his wrists and hoisting him over the side. The acting drowned person was much bigger than me and I only had the strength to just get the bulgy part of his Speedos over the edge of the pool before I dropped the poor bastard back down, scraping over the tiles edge.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 17:03, 3 replies)

I was a 15.
I thought I could impress the girls by hurdling the chain suspended between the posts that divided the parking lot from the schoolyard. I almost made it but I ended up pivoting around the chain on my groin before planting my face in the gravel.
Well, they had a good laugh, even if I couldn't join in.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 16:23, Reply)

Does being enormously butthurt count?
b3ta.com/questions/ihurtmyrudebits2/post1893365
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 15:56, 24 replies)

American Psycho.
You fill in the blanks I can't be arsed.

tl;dr

American Psycho.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 14:36, 51 replies)

doorknockers
as with high heels, some women find a sense of relief when taking off their bras, especially if well-endowed in the chesticle department.
as someone who used to be a member of the megachebs club, i often wandered about the house bra-less. unfortunately for me, gravity and the council conspired to ensure that my doorhandles were at exactly the same height as my nipples(i'm not a tall woman). this resulted in several minor injuries to my most sensitive bits. however, when the phone rang one morning and i leapt out of bed to answer it, i caught my nipple so badly on the bedroom doorhandle that it almost ripped off.
nipples bleed a lot.
nowadays, i'm living somewhere with lower handles and i wear a bra much more often.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 13:38, 22 replies)

Yapping to the office-oldie the other week
and we were talking about cooking chilli. He piped up that the last time he cooked chilli he rubbed one of his eyes and inadvertently nearly burnt the eyeball out of his skull, washing his eye for about 4 hours afterwards.

"See, you should've used milk to wash it mate, great for neutralizing chilli burns" says I, then I decided to wind him up a bit.
"Yeah, it happened to a mate once, little bit more serious but quite similar. He was chopping up chilli for this curry he was cooking for the wife and after swiping them into the wok he needed a leak. So he struts upstairs to the bathroom, has his piss then as he's finishing he realized that the chilli on his hands started to burn his cock like mental."
"What did he do?" says a concerned oldie.
"Well as I said, most people know that milk is best for this, as did he, so he legged it down to the kitchen as quick as he could, straight to the fridge, grabs a pint of semi-skimmed and fills up a glass. Once done he drops his pants and his lad takes a dive into the milk to simmer down. Well his missus who was there too looks in the kitchen to see what the problem was and spies him with his salami in the cream. She was a bit thick though, so do you know what she said?"
"Dunno?"
"I always wondered how you refill those things."
Funnily enough he still believes half the shit I come out with somehow.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 13:37, 1 reply)

Hot vagina
A few Christmases ago, I got given a bottle of mega-hot sauce. The sort where you could dip the end of a cocktail stick into it and the tiny droplet on the end could make your gob incandescent for a good half hour or so.

I'd brought it into work one day and we were trying it out when we'd gone for after-work refreshments: there were some red faces after a few of the hard cases decided to throw caution to the wind and take a teaspoon of the stuff at once.

Later on, in a state of more advanced refreshment, some of us went up to Orchard Towers. Just for a few extra drinks you understand. I was busy trying to talk to my mate and of course the local hookers were coming over and trying to make the usual tape-loop conversation. "Hi how are you". "What your name". "Where you from". "How long you in Singapore". "I love you long time". Repeat.

I was more interested in finishing telling bullshit stories, yet there was of course a stream of hookers trying to get our interest. Eventually a more aggressive one turned up and decided that she's dispense with the usual patter, preferring to just grab my hand, ram it against her minge and grind away. She lasted about a minute before she shrieked and ran off to the bog, and I figured at the time that she'd just given up and decided to flounce off. We stayed for a bit longer and exactly the same scenario repeated itself with a different hooker. Curiouser and curiouser.

But later on when I got home, I was taking out my contact lenses and chanced upon a rather different theory due to my eyeballs immediately starting to hurt like buggery. Even the next day after a good rinsing I just couldn't bear to put them back in. I had to bin the lens-case too. Obviously the earlier horsing around with the hot sauce had left plenty of traces on my fingers, and yes I had first washed my hands after having had highly diseased clunge on my fingers from earlier.

Probably not worth using it as lube...
(airbiscuit last dropped a meaty one in the lift on, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 13:07, 1 reply)

Snap Crackle Pop
The only tale I want to contribute to this lot involves my brother.
We were up country, doing a little twilight shooting for rocks, and gate latches and prickly pear plants (dangerous game).

As dark closed in, in that rapid way it does when people tell stories like this, the urge to make water overtook my brother. We pulled over in a paddock, next to a fence and he jumped out.

A few seconds later the quiet country night was broken with the sound that most men usually make only a few times in their life, followed by dramatic moaning and swearing.

Apparently the paddock was under quarantine and the fence, tuned up electrified (leaning on it feels like being hit in the back with a pool cue in half second pulses). He had pissed on the fence (obviously) and received a few solid jolts. He described the feeling as being, "like lit up from the inside with hot barbed wire.

True story! (That's why it's shit)
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 12:47, 5 replies)

I heard this from a GP I used to know a few years ago...
As part of his medical training, he'd done a bit of work in A&E. One day they had a mid-twenties couple in, he looking sheepish and she with vaginal bleeding.

Tests, examinations and head-scratching later, they can't find what could have caused the strange linear abrasions "deep inside the very centre of her"*.

Cue the "sheepish" bit. The boyfriend finally confessed that they'd been playing around with various objects and he'd put a Coke bottle up her. Without removing the crown cap first... so it had gone in okay, then scraped its way out.


* (c) 1981 Mills & Boon
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 12:38, 4 replies)

Sledging....
Years ago, sledging involved finding anything shiny and slippery and throwing yourself down the nearest hill whilst trying to balance on it instead of buying a large plastic plate from Tesco and dribbling down the same hill at walking speed.
It was snowing, so obviously my mates and I wanted to throw ourselves down a hill and get wet and muddy. We all had a variety of home-made sledges, from tea-trays to quite serious '30s looking wooden sledges.
I, however, had found a length of tin about 4 foot long and 2 foot wide and only slightly thicker than the type of silver foil you'd wrap your sandwiches up in.
We all climb to the top of the hill and procede throw ourselves down it.
It comes to my turn.
My 'sledge' was stupidly fast, being all shiny and new and that. Unfortunatly, it was also impossible to steer. That fact only started to dawn on me as I was heading at break-neck speed towards a fucking great big rock...a rock that I duly hit head on, and whilst the 'sledge' stopped dead...I didn't.
I did however tip sideways on top of the extremely thin tin and, like a razor, it cut through my trousers, through my y-fronts and......yes, through my bell end.
Blood everywhere and agonising screams eminating from an 8 year old boy bought quite a lot of attention.
A crowd had started to gather and there was lots of 'oooooh's and 'aaaaah's - this from other kids who normally would have been taking the piss. That's when I knew it was bad.
A grown-up had also joined the crowd and looked - and sounded - quite alarmed.
"What's happened, little boy" she asked.
Not wanting to swear in front of an adult, I barely breathed the words, "I think I've cut my willy"
It got worse from there on.
The lady asked where I lived and told me she would give me a lift home. This was after my protestations that I shouldn't get in a car with strangers. I also informed her that my mother was visiting my grandmother at the time, which she was. She asked where my grandmother lived and as it happened she knew her next door neighber. She took me there.
The next hour or so - it felt like years - was quite easily the most horrifying time of my life (or so I thought at the time).
I had to stand in the kitchen at my grandmother's house with my pants at my ankles with my mum, nan and granddad all looking at my cock and pointing and saying things like "oooooaaaccchhh", and "ooooooooh", before my mum finally bandaged it up.
Thankfully it's all better now, but I think I may be mentally scarred for life, it's my only saving grace that it was only mental scars!

tldr: Went down hill in the snow on a bit of tin. Sliced bell end. It bled.
(dchurch bah, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 11:29, Reply)