» Mobile phone disasters

The Ringtone of DOOOOOOOM
In my second year of university, I picked up a Motorola RAZR, which was a stupid phone with a stupid name which, stupidly, crashed a lot. I did like it for it's thin, clamshell design (which is important, as you'll see) as well as its pretty loud speaker; I am occasionally blissfully unaware of my phone ringing, unless it has a very loud ringtone. The ringtone was quickly changed to something hard and heavy (some may rememeber the RAZR required some *dodgy* software to change the ringtone).

My friends at uni weren't really into my taste in music (and therefore my ringtones) such that Megadeth and Opeth aren't du jour amongst the 'popular' types. It was during the exam period, and at the front of the exam hall we had to leave our bags/phones/dildos/whatever. I arrived with the guys, and left my phone in the front compartment of my bag. Most of my friends had left the exam early, generally due to lack of revision (HA!) or just rushing through the paper.

After this exam was done and dusted, there was a second exam an hour later. As before, all my friends left after a short while, whereas I had actually done some work and was scribbling away. As occasionally happens, a phone ringtone went off. Wait, this wasn't just any ringtone, it was a ham-handedly mixed medley of beelzebub's birthing.

..."Young man, there's a place you can go..."

".. I said *CLICK*.. IT'S RAINING MEN!.."

".. MACHO MACHO MAAAAAAAN!"

finally topped off with a sample of crazy frog *sigh*.

The confusion and hilarity was palpable, everone (including myself) was wondering which loser had such an auditory nightmare as their ringtone. I finished up my paper, handed it in and picked up my bag, and proceeded to walk out, at which point the ringtone started again. I turned around to see if I could figure out which bag this big jug of ear-rape was being poured from, but as I turned, the sound appeared to remain behind me.

Shit. Fuck. What?

What I hadn't counted on was that in leaving early, one of my friends had taken my fucking phone out of my fucking bag when they left, and promptly changed my ringtone before the next exam. The phone was surreptitiously replaced into my bag, and remained untouched until the exam in the afternoon when the trap could be sprung. Now.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the phone, which had now been wound round and stuck shut with duct-tape, and was blaring out the ham-touching mix. The 30 people still sat at their desks stared with contempt at our hero, a long-haired ruffian holding what appeared to be a sticky lump of plastic, a DIY-engineered seer stone that bleated the future in lo-fi camp disco, as he rushed to tear out its soul.

I scrabbled outside to find my 'buddies' collectively micturating in their pantaloons, laughing at my predicament.

Bastards.

In other news, I am currenly eating pineapple jelly, yum.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 13:18, More)

» Food sex

I used to worship the banana...
I gave praise to the almighty Melon; my allegiance could never be broken with the Lord Cheeseus, and his 12 dis-apples. I even dabbled with Leekhism, and became a Vindalu. I didn't take much Stock in being a Mueslim though.

After a while, however, I became disullusioned with Food Sects.


I am so sorry.
(Fri 7th Aug 2009, 11:41, More)

» Shit Stories: Part Number Two

I never knew whether to laugh or cry
I guarantee on pain of death that this is 100% true.

At the end of a meeting of my girlfriend's university friends in Huddersfield, which was at Frankie & Benny's (My most hated of all restaurants), I had the overwhelming urge to visit the toilet.

While everyone was waiting for the bill to arrive, I cautiously hobbled towards the bathroom, as the slow realisation came to me that something of substantial pressure was pushing against my sphincter.

Leaning into the cubicle, and taking a seat, I was unsurprised that within seconds,

PTHCHECKHCKECHCEKECTHTHTHTHTPPPPTHRP!

a tidal wave of epic liquid scheisse spewed forth from my anal cavity cascading toward the transparent depths below.

This continued for a further five minutes, until I felt that enough of the gravy was gone that I could relax.

Now, as some of you may know, in the toilets of Frankie & Benny's they play a 'teach yourself Italian' CD or something equally inobtrusive to the faecal experience; a man saying something in Italian, and a woman calmly saying what he just said, but in English.

Then I heard the immortal phrase:

'non ci è carta igienica'

and with exquisite timing, i reached to my right hand side to hear the woman calmly translate what I was experiencing at the time:

"There is no toilet paper".

PANIC.

I tell you, I almost shat.

In this situation, I felt exactly what the title of this post says. I laughed, I cried, I wondered how the hell I could get out of this without just assuming the embarrassment would kill me, and ending my own life.

My quandary was now how to deal with my gravy-coated posterior. There was only one way (I now realise that there were two ways, but that is beside the point).

I jumped up and looked into the other cubicle to see if there was anyone looming, and as quick as a shit-stained ninja I opened the door and dashed as fast a man with his pants around his ankles could into the next womb of thinking tranquility.

I'm so glad that noone walked in at that point where I was waddling between cubicles, else they would have seen on top of clenched legs what presumably looked like a fleshy balloon that had been cleaved with what appeared to be a melting chocolate axe.


Less about length, more about fluid ounces.
(Mon 31st Mar 2008, 16:30, More)

» Shoplifting

Gallantly Accidental Shoplifting
I have only ever remember stealing something once, and it was completely by accident (this is by the medium of shoplifting; when it comes to software/music I'm much more guilty, as probably are most of us here).

I was in a flu-filled haze in 1994, and was helping my mother with the laundry. My mother required some washing powder, and gave me two whole English pounds with which to purchase the product.

I remember walking to the store.

I remember getting home.

My mother asks for her change in shiny coins.

I hand her two English pounds.

Obviously perplexed, I tried to recall the events of my shopping trip, and then it hit me. I had walked into the store, picked up a box of washing powder directly in front of the cashier, gave a nod and a vocal sounding of 'alright?' to the man, then hazily walked out of the store.

What I don't understand to this day is why the shopkeeper didn't stop me, or say anything.

It was probably because he didn't expect a woozy looking child with a runny nose to have the bawls to walk into his store, shoplift something RIGHT UNDER HIS NOSE and greet him at the same time.

Length? up to about 15 washes before it shrunk.
(Thu 10th Jan 2008, 16:23, More)

» Public Sex

Geriatrics and Mongs
I've not really had any 'interesting' al fresco experiences of my own as of yet, but one of my most peculiar memories is of being a young lad of about 12 years of age.

It was a hot summer morning in 1995, and I was watching the Saturday morning cartoons, probably Animaniacs, Taz-Mania, or something of such ilk.

In my young entertained state, I was startled out of my Saturday-morning euphoria by a rather peculiar series of moans and screams emanating from outside (we only had single-glazed windows at the time), and the yells of what sounded like a feeble old man.

"What the hell's going on outside?" asked my mother, who was too busy feeding my sister to get out of her chair and look.

I don't know if I regret looking, but it's something that will never leave me; across the grass verge in front of my house was a main road, and on this road was a bus stop. At this bus stop, there was a very old man flailing and screaming, waving his walking stick, and yelling to every man alive that it was "bloody disgusting!" and "You dirty Bastards!"

It was then that I noticed the source of his ire: two mentally disabled people, one man, one woman were banging away at each other, in their own special little way, against the bus stop. That's right, the screams were emanating from two howling mongs fucking, incessantly yelping away in pleasure as some geriatric felt the need to berate them while they were at it.

"What's happening?" my mother asked again, seeing my startled, slack jawed face.

"Uhh... nothing?" I replied, as I slowly climbed on to the sofa, curling in a foetal position.

I could distantly hear my mother saying
"Oh, they're at it again..." as I tried to wash the images out of my brain, slowly trying to reclaim my innocence through the colourful, flashing images on the TV screen.

I didn't find out the length, but it had learning disabilities.
(Thu 23rd Apr 2009, 14:57, More)