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Showing content with the highest reputation on 02/12/10 in all areas

  1. 2 points
    Nailed on female.
  2. 2 points
    I've just spoken to Ad Lib. He's currently on page 27 of his areas of expertise and will post by the end of the week.
  3. 2 points
    If I was gonna panic buy anything it would be cigarettes and booze.
  4. 1 point
    The crooks at FIFA have done it again, sold the World cup to the highest bidder. I for one am outraged at this blatant anti-english agenda that FIFA have. They are clearly jealous of the 'Greatest league in the world' I for one will not be following any of the home nations to either Russia or Qatar. Russia have clearly been funded by the 'Russian Oil Mafia' and dont forget about all the racism/hooligans in Russia. All the african teams will have a great time out there Finally Qatar, what can I say a country which has also bought the world cup off the fifa crooks. A country which is in the middle of the desert with 50 degree temperatures and where no alcohol is available Qatar will also be an easy target for the islamic extremists considering qatar is on the doorstep of al qaeda
  5. 1 point
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  7. 1 point
    Within a week the forecast is for more snow to fall. And on that front, there's been a fresh, beautiful covering this evening. The snow here isn't even a nuisance at the moment.
  8. 1 point
    I think Shabnab and Jane should have a few rounds of topless boxing on a trampeline.Both have got very under-rated breasticles. Wonder whats going to happen tonight? Will Beale spill the beans
  9. 1 point
    Well you did go and jinx it.
  10. 1 point
    We need to take OUR game back
  11. 1 point
    Back in my school days we would get a daily bottle of milk - this would be delivered by the milkman and left on the school steps and during the winter it would freeze. Once it had returned to liquid state we would be made to drink it and it is the most disgusting taste I have ever encountered - frozen and then thawed milk. Anyone who freezes milk is a weirdo!
  12. 1 point
    Season 2, Chapter 4: Punch in the Pus Time A scream left Calum Melville's lips in a tortured dream and didn't fade to silence until he was bolt-upright and wide-eyed back in reality. Dawn's sunbeams stretched across the luxury Chicago hotel suite, penetrating the gloom to cast light on the morning-after-the-night-before mess that acted as a projection of his state his mind. Through bleary eyes he looked round to see empty bottles and glasses on every white powder-smeared surface. Debris was strewn everywhere and the Persian rug by the bed sported a large pile of shit that gave off a stench fitting of the mess the place was in. Sleep was one of the few opportunities to take respite from his problems. Within seconds of becoming awake they returned as if a hot coal had been placed in his stomach. He could not shake the burning anxiety. There was trouble on the horizon, trouble he could run but not hide from, and Melville knew it only too well. 'Baaaaaaa,' bleated the sheep dressed in a basque and crotchless panties responsible for the fecal element of the clutter. 'You are ok, baby? You have bad dream,' mumbled the sleepy-yet-stunning, thickly-accented Russian prostitute by his side. 'I think I lost my watch up your sheep's ass, man,' drawled the midget dressed as an Oompa Loompa raking round the clutter on the floor. Melville lay back and shielded his eyes from light that came into the room. His heart was pounding like a kick drum. He listened to it beat hard in his chest and let out a long, low moan as he remembered why he was in Chicago. As far as nightmare scenarios went running a marathon in aid of charity was pretty much as bad as it got. 'Fit time is it min?' 'Hopefully I'll tell ya in just a minute,' said the Oompa Loompa as he groped around elbow-deep in the sheep's arse. He sighed and pulled his hand out with an elongated squelch. 'Shit, it ain't up there. Mind if I check inside you, dude? No charge this time.' After months of training and preparation Calum Melville had blown it by partying hard on the eve of the marathon. He dragged himself out of bed and into a cold shower. As the ice cold water shocked him into something resembling wakefulness the heat of the hot coal in his gut spread through the rest of his body. His world was crumbling around him. His business transactions had not been entirely above board and were nowhere near well enough disguised. There was no avoiding the repercussions, and those repercussions were serious. Very serious. The sense of dread, a near-constant weight that only grew heavier and weighed down his very being, was almost overwhelming. He leaned against the cold tiled wall and let the water stream over him. 'Baby, you have room service at door. I let them in as I leave. Midget says he wants to work in my chocolate factory,' The beautiful young Russian had changed back into her cocktail dress and put her head round the door to bid her client farewell. She took one final look at the smallest penis she'd ever come across and closed the door. Melville didn't acknowledge her as she went. She had her fee for last night so he was none too concerned about closing pleasantries. She wheeled the room service trolley in and departed with the midget. The sheep remained, looking traumatised. Given the previous night's events it would be hard-pressed to look anything but. After a good soak Melville jumped out the shower, dried off and returned to the room to put his running shorts and vest on. What a nightmare. He was in no condition for walking to the other side of the room to open the curtains, never mind run a marathon. He sat on the edge of the bed, slumped on his elbows and noticed the room service trolley. A large silver dome covered a platter of breakfast he couldn't remember ordering. A monogrammed hotel table cloth draped over it to within millimetres of the thick shag carpet. Maybe a nutritious bite to eat would help dull the pain and get him to the starting line. He reached out to see what was on offer. 'Baaaaaa......baaaaaaa,' bleated the sheep as Melville lifted the dome. 'Black sheep huv yi' any wool?' sang the head of Jocky Scott that sat on the platter. 'Yes sir, yes sir, Fairmuir rule. Quiet when the bingo's on, glesses on a tray, should o' smelt the ganja when eh signed in Dr Dre. The place wiz fuckin' hoachin' like. Eh says, "f**k up, Doc, this isnae the Civil Service clubbie. Ootside wi' that."' Jocky Scott's head on a platter. Melville squealed like he'd seen a ghost who had a copy of Cosalt's stock report. 'Hiya Calum Melville! Hiya pal! Question fur yi', "eh've got a fehve year plan" cunto: Huv yi' got that Oompa Loompa's moby number? He wiz fuckin' teckle! Eh want aine tae! Wonder whaur yi' put their batteries? A' c**t immediately thinks "up the dunger!" when yi' ask that, eh? Fuckin' right, whaur else are they gonna go?' Calum Melville started flapping about in a state of near hysteria. 'Fit the fit? Jocky min! The f**k is this aboot min?', he wailed pathetically. His heart felt like it might explode. The pressure. The shock. The post-coke binge fear and accompanying burning sensation in his rear-end, a result of having the midget blow powder up there with a rolled up photo of Stewart Milne. And now this. It was all too much. He buried his face in his hands in the vain hope he was still dreaming, shaking his head and begging someone, anyone, to make it stop. When he looked back up Jocky's head was gone and had been replaced by a white cat with a black moustache. He sat behind a miniature travel-sized version of Connect 4. Amazed, he looked at the cat intently. It looked right back at him. The sheep bleated quietly as if it was concerned. The cat turned to it and miaowed. Some form of inter-species communication appeared to have taken place, because the sheep wandered off into the bathroom and nudged the door closed with his head. Melville wanted to get up and follow it but could not. He was paralysed, fixated by the cat's never-blinking stare. It wanted him to play Connect 4. Yes, that was it. As his body moved into a playing position his mind protested vehemently and tried to prevent further movement towards the board. The mind over matter clash was a one-sided affair, and within seconds he was dropping a coloured disc - red, like that of the only football team he gave a damn about - into the top of the board. As the cat went to make a move Melville gazed at his mind's eye as it played the highlight package of his life. 'Mia...' 'Hud the boat there, wee aine. Eh'll start proceedings here,' interrupted Jocky, who had suddenly appeared on the other side of the room and was filling a Tesco bag with complimentary tea and coffee, toiletries from the bathroom and the salted snacks from the mini bar. He checked his wrist, and although there was no watch there asked, 'ken what time it is, Wee Jock?' Melville slowly turned to the cat, saw it nodding in response and turned back to Jocky. He started to cower away as he approached purposefully. His voice was quiet and cold, his words carefully measured. 'This is fur a'body wha disnae deserve what will come at Dens. This is fur the brave boys, and girls, wha' wear the dark blue o' Dundee.' It was the stroke of punch in the pus time in the Windy City. --------------------------------------------------------- The dark clouds that had gathered on the day of Jocky's tribunal hung menacingly over Dundee Football Club for weeks, and with each passing day the rain grew heavier. It was an anxious time for all concerned. The players and staff tried to soldier on as best possible but there was no denying we all felt the tension and struggled not to let it affect us. The fans were in the same boat. They'd been through so much in the modern era. There was a time when Dundee were a force. The 1960s had seen a league championship win and some of the best teams in Europe fall at Dens. It may seem hard to believe now but Dundee were only two wins away from becoming European champions before Celtic's lions roared in Lisbon in '67. That was the peak. From there Dundee slid back down to earth and landed with a bump. The team on the pitch would never scale the glorious heights of the championship winning team. The only side that could be considered anywhere near capable of bringing back the glory days never realised the dream and eventually saw the club go into administration with debts of £23 million without anything of any real note to show for it. In the weeks after the tribunal it came to light that the situation was as serious, perhaps even worse, than they had been when the club went into administration. Melville, he of so many promises in which our faith was placed, started singing an entirely different tune to the one he'd hypnotised us with on his arrival. He wanted out. The man had poured a lot of money into the club but was drawing a line, effectively turning previous promises into lies. As we wondered what hope there would be without his financial backing the tax man came a calling. There was no money to pay for the bill he demanded be paid. The board started pointing fingers at each other but offered no solution. Dundee was in trouble, big trouble, and the possibility going to the wall - of ceasing to exist - was sick-to-the-stomach real. On the 14th of October the storm reached a new level of intensity. Lightning crashed down as Dundee FC went into administration for the second time in seven years. The roar of thunder that followed shook the club to the core. The day after we went into administration vital cost-cuts were implemented and people lost their livelihoods. As my team mates, my friends, were told they were no longer Dundee players those who caused the problems were nowhere to be seen. Melville wasn't even in the country. Bob Brannan was probably in TK Maxx and at least had the insanity thing to fall back on when blame was being proportioned. The people who lost their jobs and the fans who followed us through thick and more thin than they deserved took the brunt of the blow. 'It's a sad day, pal. This club's seen far too many o' them tae,' sighed a visibily upset Jocky. I hadn't seen him for a few days but he'd turned up at Dens that morning to offer moral support. 'Cannae believe it's come ti' this again. It's a fuckin' shambles. Tell yi' what, it wouldnae o' happened under the Marrs, like. Well, mibbe Jimmy, but no' Peter. Peter's as financially astute and unwilling ti' tak' risks as any c**t eh ken, and eh ken a lot o' c***s. Ken?' The axe fell and we said farewell to those who got the chop, offering condolences and good wishes for the future. Most of the guys who went would be sadly missed. Others, well, maybe not quite as much. 'Mon Dieu! Zees ees a disgrace! Zey cannot be allowed to get away weeth eet! En guarde!' Mikael Antoine Curier stood on Sandeman Street waiting for a lift. I might have had more sympathy for him had he not already changed into a full Hamilton Accie kit and been acting like a plank. When he realised I'd been kept and he was sacked he flew into a rage and asked why the superior striker was being let go. It was pretty poor behaviour when the rest of the lads had taken the awful news with such dignity. 'Monsieur Reid is on ze way, Leigh! I go back to ze SPL whereas you, you keep your place in ze hellhole! Who ees winning, huh?' I was in no mood to challenge him. The place was crawling with national press who were treated with much more caution than the generally sound local papers. Apparently the Beano was here too because Jocky was offering his thoughts on events to someone and declaring, 'the Bash Street Kids are sound. Plug's a good c**t. Jocky kens his auld man, yaesed ti' bide on the Provie Road.' I tried to leave Mikael on good terms. 'I'm sorry you lost your job, Mikael. All the best to you.' I extended my hand but he only spat at my feet in return. 'OW! You fuckin' daein' yi big p***k? Eh? You gettin' wide wi' meh pal, cunto?' Jocky stormed up and I had to hold him back before he made a scene. Curier backed off but kept the motor mouth running. 'Here he ees, ze lunatic manager who ees always asking who is in charge. Do you not realise zat I, Mikael, am in charge?' Oh man. That wasn't smart. Thankfully Jocky seemed to find it quite funny. 'Yas! That's the gemme, big stuff! See if yi' showed that attitude on the pitch instead o' bein' a big lazy spazzie b*****d wha's mair injury prone than the Brittle Bone Society's karate team, yi'd be the maist famous Frenchman since Zidane and revered like thon boy fae 'Allo 'Allo.' Curier responded by shouting, 'YOU KNOW NOTHING OF 'ALLO 'ALLO! ALL YOU KNOW IS HOW TO CARE FOR ZAT RAT OF YOURS!' Jocky took exception to that comment but for all the wrong reasons. 'Dinnae call Leigh a rat ya bam! He's no' the bonniest laddie in the world but yi' dinnae meet many sounder!' Slightly offended, I suggested he was infact referring to Wee Jocky, and it pushed him over the edge. 'WHIT? FUCKING WHIT? NAE c**t CALLS MEH CAT A RAT, CUNTO! NAE c**t!' He softened instantly and politely asked if I had the time. 'It's just after...' 'PUNCH IN THE FUCKING PUS TIME! THUNDERCATS - HOOOOOOOO!' Curier bolted and Jocky was hot on his heels. I looked to see if anyone from the press saw it. Thankfully they were pre-occupied with people coming out the front door of Dens, so I gave chase. I tore down Provest Road and caught sight of them taking a right up on to Dens Road. Mikael was fast but Jocky was keeping pace just behind him. As they approached the play park Jocky started yelling, 'Bomber! Get a hud o' this c**t!' at a middle-aged man with red hair and a wild look about him. He didn't lay a finger on Curier but he blocked his way by dancing furiously in front of him, preventing him from passing and holding him up long enough to allow Jocky to catch up. The dancing man saw Jocky closing in and jumped out the way. As Curier turned to gauge his next move he was obliterated with a flying clothesline. 'YAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSS!' cried Jocky as he rolled Curier on to his back and lay over him. He started looking around, shouting, 'some c**t count! Big Jock's got him pinned ti' f**k here!' The dancer was making a UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ noise to himself and was lost in some robotic dances moves reminiscent of those I'd seen Jocky pull. I did the honours and got down on the pavement to slap my hand on the concrete three times. 'YAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSS! Ya c**t, that wiz some clothesline! Best aine since eh banjoed Hacksaw Jim Duggan doon at the train station. The other Aberdeen casuals got right back on the train and went hame efter that aine.' Curier moaned and groaned on the pavement. The aggression had been knocked out of him and the three-count seemed to have ended the matter as far as Jocky was concerned. He helped his defeated foe back up and dusted him down a bit. 'A'right chief, it's nae bather. Eh think yi' learned yir lesson there, eh?' He exhaled deeply,surrendering with a handshake and a weak smile. 'Monsiur Jocky, I apologise for calling ze cat a rat.' Jocky took his hand and shook it, nodding with respect as his opponent showed some dignity in defeat. 'Fair doos, pal. Ain't no thang but a G thang, a'body kens that. We'll call it quits there, eh? Teckle! Now, what's the plan? What yi' up ti'? Bowzer for a swift jar? The High Corner fur a wee shot on the buckin' bronco?' Mikael gave it some thought. While he had said Hamilton were about to sign him and was certainly dressed for the occasion it seemed that deal wasn't as cut and dried as he made out, because he stood for a minute looking a bit lost. I felt bad for him. Suddenly his eyes brightened and he stood tall as he walked out in the middle of Dens Road and lay down on his back with his hands behind his head. A couple of cars had to screech to a halt to avoid running him over. 'Mikael! What the f**k, man?' He shook his head at my failure to grasp what he was up to. 'Leigh mon amis, can you not see what ees 'appening? I am on strike! Why? No real reason. Perhaps someone suggested it's only a matter of time before Hamilton will be back in ze 1st division. Perhaps I 'ave just been informed ze actor who played Reni in 'Allo 'Allo was not only English but a notorious homosexual. Who knows? One thing is for sure - I am on strike.' Les Marsaeillais started up out of nowhere. Jocky looked around for the source of the music, found none, shrugged his shoulders and gave Mikael a wee salute. I felt obliged to do the same. Mikael merely waved us off with disdain and got settled in for his latest strike action. As traffic built up all the way down the road and the beeping and tooting started, Jocky introduced me to a guy whose name I'd heard a few times but hadn't actually met. 'Leigh "Mongchops" Griffiths, John "Bomber" Broon. Say hiya, cuntos!' Bomber grabbed me and hugged me lovingly as if we'd known each other for years. 'Leigh! Alright man! Having a good night?' It was only lunchtime but I said I was indeed having a good night. 'f**k aye man, it's pure mental in here! Did you catch Weatherall's set? Fucking brilliant by the way, pure givin' it UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ-UNTZ.' Bomber shuffled away dancing to the beat he was recreating. Jocky looked on smiling and shaking his head. 'Some c**t right there, Leigh. Bomber Broon! If yi' ever need sorted oot that's the man ti' see, a'body kens that. Apparently his mushies are pure tec....' He coughed and indicated it was time to head off. He told Bomber to meet up at the Fairmuir later on and received a hands-in-the-air salute and smile as wide as the Tay. I waved and followed Jocky. The day of sad goodbyes wasn't over quite yet. ----------------------------------------------- Though the bouncy castle was now deflated it didn't stop Billy bouncing up and down on it. Jocky and I said hello to the team of removal men and called on our pal. Gordon Chisholm and Billy Dodds had been the first out the door today. Billy stopped bouncing when he saw us. He waved, enthusiastically at first but slowing down gradually until he stopped and burst out in tears. Jocky and I both jogged over to console him. 'Poor wee man! 'Mon now, nae greetin',' soothed Jocky as he hugged Billy lovingly and kissed his forehead. Billy hugged him back fiercely then offered an open arm to me so I could join them. The three of us stood in a group hug. Billy's wailing set Jocky off doing the same, and the sight of both of them crying started my waterworks. It was awful. Jocky wiped his eyes and tried to cheer his wee pal up a bit. 'Billy, mind that time eh took yi' ti' Edinburgh Zoo? Mind that, Billy? The zoo's fuckin' teckle! Eh ended up scrapin' wi' thon penguin right enough, but it wiz a braw day oot. Mind that, Billy?' Billy sniffled and nodded, smiling at the memory. 'Mind what eh says tae that penguin, Billy? Eh?' Jocky gave him a huge smile and a nudge with his elbow as he coaxed the good memory out him. Billy laughed through the end of his tears, wiping the snot from his nose and nodding. Jocky wanted Billy to say it so he nudged him a little more until he did. 'Jocky asked the biscuit wha's in cherge!' Jocky erupted in laughter. 'Yaaaaaas! Mind that, Billy? Fuckin' right! Big Jocky's in cherge here, a'body kens that! Fuckin' penguin b*****d, that wiz him telt.' The three of us laughed heartily. The removal men stood watching with a freaked out look in their eye before continuing to load the lorry. It was a busy scene and we didn't want to hang around getting in the way. 'Well Billy, that's you aff, eh? Affy sorry yi' got the bullet, pal. Yi'll be a'right though! Boy like you'll hae another gig on the go in nae time.' Billy nodded and creased his face as if it was daft to suggest he was stuck for work. 'Billy's on the radio! Speaks about futba.' Jocky opened his arms up in a "well there you go" gesture. 'See! It's nae bather! If any c**t ever puts that Video Killed the Radio Star sang on eh'll say, "ow, cunto, that's no' entirely true, like," and tell them meh pal Billy's a wee star and he's on the radio, ken? Eh? Fuckin' right.' They shook hands and embraced. Watching them say goodbye brought the tears back to my eyes, and when Billy came to me to say farewell with a sad yet brave look that would melt a glacier I couldn't help but let them run down my cheeks. Billy had been there for me. He was there when I pulled the lever, been prepared to fight for me when Brannan's goons threatened me afterwards and taken the long journey up the Tay to find Jocky. He was a good man and a great friend whom I would miss terribly. We didn't say a word as he hugged goodbye. Everything I needed to know was in his bright, sparkling eyes and the nod of complete understanding he gave me as we broke our embrace. He looked and smiled at us in turn then wandered off to his tricycle. He put his propellor hat on, revved the engine (or at least made the noise it would make if it had an engine) and pedalled off. Jocky and I stood watching him go as the removal guys, who would follow on to Billy's new location shortly, started packing up the bouncy castle. Just as he was almost out of sight Billy swerved round and came back towards us. With an enormous smile he approached to within a few feet, bellowed, 'BILLY LIKES FUTBA!', then turned without stopping and disappeared back down the road until he vanished from sight. See yi' later, Billy. See yi', pal.
  13. 1 point
    Interpol are brilliant live. They have a superb aura about them. Even if it's a slow song with no crowd participation, the music usually sucks you right in. Remember hearing "Pioneer to the Falls" for the first time when they played it at Leeds and it felt like everyone was watching in awe rather than being bored.
  14. 1 point
  15. 1 point
    Up until this morning, I hadn't shit in three or so days - I had really noticed that until last night when just before I went to bed I thought "Hmm I haven't shit in a few days I wonder what's up?". I'm not one to try and force out a shit, I just answer when nature calls and release the shit when it wants to be released. It don't dare try and remove it's free will, I respect it and hopefully it respects me back - it's a cosy wee relationship. However this relationship could well be over, war is close to being declared after the events of this morning at roughly 0800 hours. I awoke ready for the day ahead, my first day at uni which involved lectures. "I don't wish to be late today", I thought to myself. My bowels must have heard me and perhaps they had other plans. I don't know the full details of their plan and I probably never will, but I felt the full force of their power today. I wandered to my bathroom for a pre-shower and pre-breakfast piss. As I relived myself and whistled "These Boots Are made For Walking" by Nancy Sinatra (cracking tune by the way), I felt a twinge in my bowels. The first fart of the day emerged, closely followed by another one, and then another slightly wet sounding one. This was a warning alarm, a shot across the bow if you like, but in my foolishness and naivety this warning went unheeded . I turned to exit the bathroom and thanked my lucky stars that I have to turn my arse over the toilet seat for me to exit the bathroom after a piss because what happened next was undesirable, but I will do my best to describe it you, the readers and fellow proud shitters of P&B. A shite blitzkrieg is all I can do to try and paint the (rather messy) picture of what happened in the opening stages. Guderian himself would have been proud of this perfectly executed attack, I had no reply for 5 or 6 minutes as my arsehole was torn to pieces by a mix of liquid shit and incendiary shit pellets, these were used in conjunction with the horrific smell and the splash-back that I was receiving. Sometimes a bit of splash-back can be okay when it soothes the arse, but not today. The water that was splashing up was essentially shit, it was a rich mahogany colour and it felt like sulphuric acid was being sprayed over my now tender arse. After the initial furious attack had died down and after the tears and stopped flowing down my cheeks (on my face but I wish they had been flowing down the cheeks of my arse), I dared to try and wipe. I bad move. It's an old and often over used cliche that the toilet paper felt like sandpaper, so i won't use that. It felt like razor wire. After a minute or so of painful wiping, I was hit by another wave of bowel twinges. I sat on my porcelain throne and held tight, I was going to take this like a man, I wasn't going down begging for mercy...... I did. God damn me I did. Saturation bombing this time, medium sized shits dropped out at will without facing any resistance, my arsehole was taking more pain than George Michael's will in his entire prison stretch. I couldn't let out any noise though, I could not let others know of what was going on - this was my battle and no one else needed to have any involvement. After a few minutes (keeping track of the time was the last thing on my mind) there was a lull. I waved my white flag and it seemed as though my bowels had seen enough, even they couldn't put through anymore. Right? Wrong! These preliminary stages must have been attempting to lubricate my arse for the main event, the grand finale. Something was coming and I had an idea what it was. The biggest fucking shit I have ever pushed out arrived without warning. After 7 minutes of pushing and straining - and ultimately, pain - "Little Boy" (as I christened it, it was the least I could do for this monumental shit) was dropped with an enormous "SPLASH". I wasn't even allowed to wipe the sweat from my brow when another one of these big fuckers came along. Fittingly I christened this one "Fat Man". After more sweat, tears and toil (thankfully no blood) this one was dropped. There will be small islands in the Pacific Ocean that have been lost because of the tsunami caused by the splash created by "Fat Man". This was it, a ceasefire had now been called. It was all over, almost 45 minutes after it had started. I wiped carefully as to not cause anymore damage to my tender and fragile bum. I then proceeded to have a cold shower to try and cool my body down after the struggle beasting I had received. I still managed to get to my lecture in time. However I sat through two today in fear, my arse cheeks clenched together tighter than a virgin's fanny. The smell is still in my bathroom and my window is wide open in case any penetrates my room, it will serve as a reminder of the events of Tuesday September 28th, 2010 AD for a while to come (not even Oust can defeat this smell and I don't want to try anymore just incase I gas myself). The scars however, will never heal. The events of today will last long in my mind and my arsehole.
  16. 1 point
    Cheap toilet paper is the invention of the devil. When I was in Zante during the summer, on day 4 of my week there I suffered the backlash of the preceding days drinking vodka, fruit juice and strongbow. This shit was just like foam, and it was endless. I was squeezing it out for about 15 minutes solid. And the smell, oh my day, the smell. It was the most horrific smell ever. Then came the worst part, this shit felt like it was hotter than the sun. The ringsting I was having was just hideous. And then I had to wipe. With the cheapest, roughest, most painful toilet paper you can imagine. My eyes were watering. I had to go take a half hour lie down in the foetal position to get over it.
  17. 1 point
    Everybody loves a morning shit. I know I do, well did, until yesterday. It started like any normal day, cereal, brush my teeth and get ready for the day ahead. But the start of this day was to cause major uncomfort and pain throughout the rest of the day. I needed a shite the night before, but I was to tired to get up and plant the brown onion so I fell asleep with this bad boy still inside me. In the morning I awoke from my beauty sleep, and made way for the kitchen, I had just finished the breakfast and every other morning thing you can think of until I suddenly felt the wrath of the shite after being held prisoner overnight, this thing was coming whether I liked it or not. It would have been nice for some heads up that it was coming but no, nothing. As I scrambled for the toilet frantically untying my laces of my shorts (there is nothing more nerve racking than untying the laces or your belt in your trousers especially when there is a 4 tonne beast peering out of your arse) waiting to lay the beast. But the worst thing possible happens, a knot, so here I am standing at the side of the toilet trying to clench my cheeks together while trying to get a minor knot out, but a major inconvenience. After being doubled up for what seemed like an eternity but was 2 minutes in reality I managed to untie the knot and plant my arse on the seat with a great sigh. Now I fully expected this to be a fast quick bowel movement but no, my bowels were after revenge, this wasn't the fast paced skittery jobbie I so wanted, no this was a long solid 10 incher. The worst thing was I could feel my insides bursting because I needed so bad, but this thing would not budge, it eventually poked it's head out and to get the tip out my arsehole must have quadrupled in size. An absolute monster if I have ever saw one. As I had gotten past the first 3 inches the width of the shite decreased and normal service resumed, this went past easily apart from the sweating and 'oohing and aahing' and obvcourse the ringsting. Once I had finished up standing up was hard, never mind wiping, I had to wet the toilet roll to try and soothe my ring it was that bad, I honestly thought it was on fire. It doesn't help when my Mum decides that Tesco's or Asda's own brand of toilet roll is a better deal than some beautiful quilted scented stuff that you usually get. I never got the saying "toilet roll was like fucking sandpaper" until now. After my shit I waddled away still in pain from the previous 20 minutes. No more than a minute after leaving the bathroom I felt my stomach move, I pleaded to Jesus, no more, and luckily there was no more, only a fart. When I realised it was just a fart I casually let it rip without a care in the world. Big mistake. This angered the ringsting making it almost unbearable and physically reduced me to tears. That's right a fart reduced me to tears. The moral of that story, go to the toilet before bed.
  18. 0 points
    You forgot about... "You do know who I am, don't you?" "No" "I'm Stuart Dickson" "Oh, very sorry, Mr Dickson, your delivery will be at your front door in 10 minutes, along with a cheque for £200 by way of an apology".
  19. -1 points
    Kick Ass was shite. Stupid Hollywood pish: No need to change the flamethrower to the jetpack machine guns when they take out the mob at the end. Changing the ending so that it's a "guy gets the girl in the end" type of crap. Nicholas Cage trying to be Adam West batman. The costume was also changed from the comic to make it look more like batman. 4/10
  20. -1 points
    England should withdraw from FIFA or play 11 year olds in their next international
  21. -1 points
  22. -9 points
    Gutted for them.
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