» Housemates

Scandinavian Housemate
Oystien conformed to many of the Scandinavian stereotypes we hold, being blond and sexually uninhibited. Sadly the lack of a second X chromosome held him back from being the perfect housemate. He's long gone now, but you will know him if you meet him because he will tell this story to anyone after a few drinks, complete with whimsical backstory...

Winter nights are long and cold in Norway, and drinking is the only way to get through them. Sadly a "small beer" costs about £4 for about 300ml so young people short on cash drink heavily at home before a night out at preparties/vorspiels(sp?), often drinking terrible but inexpensive home made spirits.

Lutefisk is a Scandinavian delicacy consisting of fish soaked in lye. If that doesn't sound bad enough, true gourmets believe it is more flavoursome when it has just started to ferment . Judging whether fermentation has gone too far is something of an art, and a task made considerably more difficult after the consumption of large amounts of home distilled vodka.

One evening sees young Oystien, suffering after heavy consumption of both of the above national delicacies, reeling his merry way into the dark Scandinavian night. Nature inevitably takes its course, and by the time he makes it into town the gut rot and rotten fish are exerting a powerful effect on his lower digestive system. Matters "come to a head", and he is forced to make a speedy decision. Scandinavians are very socially minded, and public urination, or indeed defecation, carries a heavy fine, and besides the streets are crowded. The towns only public toilet is a long walk away and the few night spots in reach have long queues of freezing revelers outside.

As another contraction hits, he finds himself outside the lighted doors of a bank, one of those which allow entry to indoor cash machines after closing. Inspiration strikes-although the lobby doors face the street, the cash machines inside provide a screen from the street. Not much, but enough for a desperate man to relieve himself with some degree of privacy. So he ventures inside, and there behind the furthest cash machine, like a gift from the Gods, sits a wire waste paper basket, upon which he can squat and avoid losing his balance and falling drunkenly into his own leavings. And squat he does, and it is good. Oystien rationalises that a shit in a basket is less offensive and easier to clean up than a shit on the floor, and so some of his guilt is assuaged. His business at the bank almost completed, he notices in wonder that littered around him are lots of those little receipt things the machines give, and with these he can clean himself behind.

But, as he fastens his trousers, realisation hits! The bank would surely have installed cctv in the lobby, and the whole sordid episode would be caught on tape! Rationalising fast, our hero makes a mental check of his attire: white trainers, baggy jeans, dark gloves, a nondescipt black jacket, and most vitally, a baseball cap! Clothes that would not make him easy to identify, and the peak of the cap obscuring his face. Making certain not to scan the ceiling for cameras, he exits the lobby with a spring in his step and blessedly empty bowels. He has perpetrated the perfect crime!

Come Monday, his hangover little more than a dull sense of paranoia, he is working happily at his desk when the phone rings. Who should it be but the local police station , and would he please present himself there before the end of the day? After work, He makes his way to the station with trepidation, but not without some confidence- he is sure he never revealed his face to the cameras, nor removed his gloves; what evidence would the police have besides a passing visual resemblance? A stern faced officer takes his name at the desk, and he is made to wait before being ushered into a crowded room and sat before a TV screen in crowded room. The officer presses a button on the video, and Oystein is treated to a ceiling mounted view of his the escapades of the past weekend. Try as he might, our hero cannot keep a straight face. He realises the room is full of people who have come to see his reaction. Knowing his blushes are already giving him away, he makes full confession before the laughing audience of police.

One thing is still puzzling him. Today is monday, and the incident was on saturday night, not two days ago. How had they found him so fast? Banks have developed a mechanism to stop unwanted person entering their lobbies after closing. Only those in possession of a bank card are able to pass through the doors. This is checked by a simple scanner, through which one must drag ones card. Oystein had used his own, providing his name and address to to the authorities before he had even committed a crime.
(Fri 27th Feb 2009, 15:37, More)

» Putting the Fun in Funeral

Life Death and Sex
My Grandmother's funeral was at a crematoirium in central London. As you can iagine it was pretty busy, so we had to wait. We met the previous funeral party coming out, and there was one very saucy girl looking abosultely stunning in black, with a sexy little veil and carring a small wreath, the epitome of sexy widowhood or more likely grand daughterhood. Giving her the once over, her eye caught mine and she gave me what can only be described as a royal eye fucking, even tunring back saucily to see if I was was still looking (which I was).

Not so much funny as fun, and she had no complaints about length so nor should you. Are we still doing this?
(Thu 11th May 2006, 23:07, More)

» Bullies

Uber Bully
'Although I never got anyone to actually kill themselves, I still consider myself to have been the best bully I have known.

I was suspended once for telling the diabetic kid in our school that he was "a bit a of a freak". This was the official reason given to my parents on the letter of suspension. But the truth was that, through two and a half years of relentless bullying, the stress had actually caused him to DEVELOP diabetes, and move to a new school. It wasn't very clever stuff ('You're gay', 'You look like a cat, Catman', 'your mother is a hermaphrodite who tried to seduce me', 'your 8-year-old sister is actually your father's 34-year-old gay lover' etc. etc.) but it was never-ending. I remember the head of middle school telling me as he sent me home that the poor boy would "have to inject himself with insulin every day for the rest of his life."

Well, I met him not six months later and it turned out that the diabetes had completely disappeared after the bullying stopped, so he didn't have to inject himself anymore.

I think I'm owed an apology. Someone owes me an apology'

NB this is a repost of my story from LOTP. This at least has the benefit of being true, rather than being lifted directly from that site...*looks pointedly at various users*
(Sun 17th May 2009, 18:03, More)