Profile for Chrico:
Chrico: Happily gurgling sweet nothings to himself since 1984
Fun Fact: Chrico is ten times larger than an object ten times smaller than his bodymass
Fun Fact: Chrico is a freshwater fish, and has underwater weapons.
Fun Fact: Chrico is to be the next host of Countdown, but only under strict instructions that he is not, under any circumstances, to obscure the first O.
Fun Fact: Chrico thinks, therefore Chrico shall take over the world.
Website: chrico.mazca.com
Recent front page messages:
Best answers to questions:
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- a member for 20 years, 8 months and 26 days
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- has posted 17 stories and 0 replies on question of the week
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Chrico: Happily gurgling sweet nothings to himself since 1984
Fun Fact: Chrico is ten times larger than an object ten times smaller than his bodymass
Fun Fact: Chrico is a freshwater fish, and has underwater weapons.
Fun Fact: Chrico is to be the next host of Countdown, but only under strict instructions that he is not, under any circumstances, to obscure the first O.
Fun Fact: Chrico thinks, therefore Chrico shall take over the world.
Website: chrico.mazca.com
Recent front page messages:
Best answers to questions:
» Cheating cheaty cheats
Where's Wally?
This is how sad I am.
I used to love Where's Wally (Waldo for our 'Merkin friends) books. I think at one point I owned every single one that they'd made up until that point. Upon finding one in the attic a few years ago I can't for the life of me work out why. Anyway, I knew the location of Wally on each and every single page. Even the really difficult ones at the end.
One year, when I was about 9 or 10, my parents were in charge of a stall at a school fair, so I had to get up at seven on a Saturday morning to help put the stall up. As it happens, our stall was right next to a Where's Wally stall, where they'd blown up with a photocopier one of the really difficult pictures (with several clones of Wally and only one "true" Wally). If you could stick a pin over where Wally was, you'd win a prize.
Aha! As I said, I already had every single Where's Wally book - including the one this picture was taken from. As I was right next to the stall, I was able to put my pin in first before any of the punters. Wham! Right on top of the "real" Wally that I had found at least a year or so previously. Straight in the middle of his fizzog too, just to avoid any arguments later.
The following Monday morning, during assembly, the winner of the prize was announced... and I'd won! Finally, for the first time in my life, I'd actually won something! Admittedly, I'd been able to cheat by (a) knowing the picture off by heart and (b) being able to get there first, but I couldn't give a shit. So, I went up to accept my prize, which was...
Well, I should have known. A sodding Where's Wally book. One that I already owned. Arses.
(Incidentally, if anybody wants a copy of "Where's Wally in Hollywood", I'm sure that I could find it for you somewhere)
I'd apologise for length, but that wouldn't take away the pain.
(Sat 19th Nov 2005, 19:08, More)
Where's Wally?
This is how sad I am.
I used to love Where's Wally (Waldo for our 'Merkin friends) books. I think at one point I owned every single one that they'd made up until that point. Upon finding one in the attic a few years ago I can't for the life of me work out why. Anyway, I knew the location of Wally on each and every single page. Even the really difficult ones at the end.
One year, when I was about 9 or 10, my parents were in charge of a stall at a school fair, so I had to get up at seven on a Saturday morning to help put the stall up. As it happens, our stall was right next to a Where's Wally stall, where they'd blown up with a photocopier one of the really difficult pictures (with several clones of Wally and only one "true" Wally). If you could stick a pin over where Wally was, you'd win a prize.
Aha! As I said, I already had every single Where's Wally book - including the one this picture was taken from. As I was right next to the stall, I was able to put my pin in first before any of the punters. Wham! Right on top of the "real" Wally that I had found at least a year or so previously. Straight in the middle of his fizzog too, just to avoid any arguments later.
The following Monday morning, during assembly, the winner of the prize was announced... and I'd won! Finally, for the first time in my life, I'd actually won something! Admittedly, I'd been able to cheat by (a) knowing the picture off by heart and (b) being able to get there first, but I couldn't give a shit. So, I went up to accept my prize, which was...
Well, I should have known. A sodding Where's Wally book. One that I already owned. Arses.
(Incidentally, if anybody wants a copy of "Where's Wally in Hollywood", I'm sure that I could find it for you somewhere)
I'd apologise for length, but that wouldn't take away the pain.
(Sat 19th Nov 2005, 19:08, More)
» Useless Information
A smoot
is a measure of length equal to the height of Oliver Smoot, the president of the International Organisation for Standardization. As a student, he was used to measure Harvard Bridge - length "364.4 smoots and one ear". One smoot is approximately 1.70 metres.
Also, paleontologists use "lawyers" to measure food consumption of the Tyrannosaurus Rex, after the scene in Jurassic Park where a Tyrannosaurus Rex eats a lawyer.
(Thu 17th Mar 2005, 15:32, More)
A smoot
is a measure of length equal to the height of Oliver Smoot, the president of the International Organisation for Standardization. As a student, he was used to measure Harvard Bridge - length "364.4 smoots and one ear". One smoot is approximately 1.70 metres.
Also, paleontologists use "lawyers" to measure food consumption of the Tyrannosaurus Rex, after the scene in Jurassic Park where a Tyrannosaurus Rex eats a lawyer.
(Thu 17th Mar 2005, 15:32, More)
» World's Sickest Joke
Two tramps, Bert and Frank, were talking about life in general,
when Bert asked Frank, "What's the best sex you've ever had?" Frank, with a sad look on his face, told Bert that he'd only had sex once, and then he went and accidentally stuck a pin in her and *POP!* that was the end of that.
Bert replied to this by telling Frank about the one time that he had been foraging for food by the railway line, when he saw this beautiful naked woman, just lying there, tied to the track. He quickly untied her, dragged her out of the path of an oncoming train and right there, right then, shagged the hell out of her.
"Wow," said Bert, "she was pretty fucking lucky. What did she say to you afterwards?"
"Dunno," said Frank, "I never found her head."
(Thu 9th Sep 2004, 19:25, More)
Two tramps, Bert and Frank, were talking about life in general,
when Bert asked Frank, "What's the best sex you've ever had?" Frank, with a sad look on his face, told Bert that he'd only had sex once, and then he went and accidentally stuck a pin in her and *POP!* that was the end of that.
Bert replied to this by telling Frank about the one time that he had been foraging for food by the railway line, when he saw this beautiful naked woman, just lying there, tied to the track. He quickly untied her, dragged her out of the path of an oncoming train and right there, right then, shagged the hell out of her.
"Wow," said Bert, "she was pretty fucking lucky. What did she say to you afterwards?"
"Dunno," said Frank, "I never found her head."
(Thu 9th Sep 2004, 19:25, More)
» Your Revenge Stories
Autocomplete
A fun thing to do to someone who you don't like is to open up Autocomplete on Word, and add a couple of new entries.
For instance, one guy found out that his name was now "Sir Pisslethwaite", while another person was rather confused after I changed every "e" into "ibbi". It was vibbirry intibbiribbisting to ribbiad aftibbirwards.
And, with spreadsheets, try typing something insulting into cell IV65536. If they're using headers and footers, it means they print out (if they don't stop it and they have an endless supply of paper) about 40000 pages, with their incriminating names on the top of each blank page.
(Sat 15th May 2004, 15:14, More)
Autocomplete
A fun thing to do to someone who you don't like is to open up Autocomplete on Word, and add a couple of new entries.
For instance, one guy found out that his name was now "Sir Pisslethwaite", while another person was rather confused after I changed every "e" into "ibbi". It was vibbirry intibbiribbisting to ribbiad aftibbirwards.
And, with spreadsheets, try typing something insulting into cell IV65536. If they're using headers and footers, it means they print out (if they don't stop it and they have an endless supply of paper) about 40000 pages, with their incriminating names on the top of each blank page.
(Sat 15th May 2004, 15:14, More)
» Old People Talk Bollocks
My grandad
used to tell the same stories to us again and again and again and again and again. And again.
This might have been interesting, had they been enthralling stories about how he had killed seventeen soldiers armed with a toothpick or how he had sailed across the Atlantic in seven minutes. Sadly, most of the time they were mindnumbingly boring stories about the time he had been to Table Mountain in South Africa during the war ("It's not actually flat on top of Table Mountain - it's quite rocky, in fact...") and how he had seen Lulu riding along in a float in Coventry, singing her head off ("She couldn't sing a note, I can tell you that...")
After a while me and my family learned to switch off whenever he started rambling. However, there was one time when I couldn't avoid it.
In his sitting-room, he always used to sit in a chair facing the centre of the room. The chair I sat in was opposite where he sat - and above this chair, there was a hook where the calendar hung.
I always used to go round to his house on Sundays for lunch. One such Sunday, he looked at the calendar, and said "That dog looks evil, it does." I craned my neck to see the dog, and indeed, it did look slightly evil - it had a menacing "Touch me and I'll bite" look upon its face. We then had a conversation about it for a few minutes, as you do.
This was all well and good, but the next Sunday, he looked at the calendar and said "Hey, Chris, that dog looks evil, doesn't it?" Again, I craned my neck, and the dog was no more or less evil than it had been the last week.
"You told me that last week," I told him.
No use. He said exactly the same things about it as he did the last week.
This happened for the next three Sundays. Every week, he would look at the calendar, and say "That dog looks menacing" or words to that effect, and would then attempt to innitiate a conversation that I wanted no part of, but was forced into simply because of where I sat.
Sadly, he died a few years ago. However, I will always remember one thing he said a few months before he died that I shall cherish for a long time:
"Anne Robinson - she's a bitch."
I couldn't agree more.
(Thu 11th Mar 2004, 14:55, More)
My grandad
used to tell the same stories to us again and again and again and again and again. And again.
This might have been interesting, had they been enthralling stories about how he had killed seventeen soldiers armed with a toothpick or how he had sailed across the Atlantic in seven minutes. Sadly, most of the time they were mindnumbingly boring stories about the time he had been to Table Mountain in South Africa during the war ("It's not actually flat on top of Table Mountain - it's quite rocky, in fact...") and how he had seen Lulu riding along in a float in Coventry, singing her head off ("She couldn't sing a note, I can tell you that...")
After a while me and my family learned to switch off whenever he started rambling. However, there was one time when I couldn't avoid it.
In his sitting-room, he always used to sit in a chair facing the centre of the room. The chair I sat in was opposite where he sat - and above this chair, there was a hook where the calendar hung.
I always used to go round to his house on Sundays for lunch. One such Sunday, he looked at the calendar, and said "That dog looks evil, it does." I craned my neck to see the dog, and indeed, it did look slightly evil - it had a menacing "Touch me and I'll bite" look upon its face. We then had a conversation about it for a few minutes, as you do.
This was all well and good, but the next Sunday, he looked at the calendar and said "Hey, Chris, that dog looks evil, doesn't it?" Again, I craned my neck, and the dog was no more or less evil than it had been the last week.
"You told me that last week," I told him.
No use. He said exactly the same things about it as he did the last week.
This happened for the next three Sundays. Every week, he would look at the calendar, and say "That dog looks menacing" or words to that effect, and would then attempt to innitiate a conversation that I wanted no part of, but was forced into simply because of where I sat.
Sadly, he died a few years ago. However, I will always remember one thing he said a few months before he died that I shall cherish for a long time:
"Anne Robinson - she's a bitch."
I couldn't agree more.
(Thu 11th Mar 2004, 14:55, More)