» Conned

I was on my way to the train station in Melbourne one fine day...
and was approached by a little old lady, looked like someones grandma.. As I was pulling out my packet of cigarettes she approached..

"Hallo Love, Can I have a smoke?" - butter couldn't melt in her mouth.

I looked at this little old grandma, and suddenly the fury of having been asked for cigarettes by random entitled losers came to a head within me.

"No" I calmly replied, lit my cigarette and put the near full packet back into my handbag.

"What??!!" This harpy screeched! "You Nasty Little BITCH!"

Someone's dear little Grandma was clearly off her meds

I gave her my most practised look of derision and flicked my barely dragged upon cigarette into the gutter beside her.

"You're a nasty girl and you have a fat arse!" She shrieked into my casually retreating back.

Upon hearing this, I turned mid walk. "Maybe you should quit smoking and use the extra pension money to buy a razor for your mustache you f*cking obese cunt"

She was shocked into silence and my victory over the sweet old grandmother was won.

I refuse to be conned into giving smokes to little old ladies who are crazy assholes in disguise.
(Fri 19th Oct 2007, 4:09, More)

» Cringe!

Some anonymous guy posted this on Craigslist and I had to share
The Time I Lost Control of My Bowels on the Water Slide.


My last few months have been racked with guilt and shame over a horrible incident and the need to purge myself has become overwhelming. So I turn to you for a compassionate ear.
Last summer, I took my girlfriend, I'll call her Beulah, and her son, I'll call him Eugene, to a water amusement park, attempting to nurture the bond that was forming between us. After a busy morning of paddleboats and bumper cars, we took a moment to refresh ourselves with a hardy lunch of chili dogs, cheese fries, and lemonade. Relaxing under shade trees, Eugene smiled a chili-smeared grin, as the sun cast its languid glow over the park. With the leisurely picnic ending, we hastily dispersed to the changing rooms, in anticipation of our next adventure—the giant water slide.
During our first run, I noticed a gnawing, internal discomfort, although the first sure signs of brown-capping weren’t apparent until Eugene and I climbed the half-mile of stairs to the summit, for our second run. Unfortunately, I had taken the opportunity, to wear a most-revealing, blue Speedo, in the hope of further enamoring myself to the beautiful Beulah. Lord knows, I have the body to accommodate such a blatant, public display of manhood.
However, I soon began to regret my decision, for the sharp, cut of the elastic dug into my swelling, gaseous abdomen. My intestines were bubbling like a whirlpool. By the time we reached the loading platform at the summit, I was squirming in wretched misery. Considering my options, I surmised that taking the slide was far more promising than fighting my way back down the stairs, through the crowd. Thank God I was next in line. My trouble would soon be over. The only obstacle before me was an elderly German tourist, staring pensively at the wild rapids. With obvious reservation, he shuffled slowly toward the mouth of the blue tunnel. Beyond the point of pleasantries, I bellowed, “Come on, Pops! Shake a leg!”
Turning toward the acne-pocked boy who was managing the ride that day, he made a feeble attempt in his native tongue to communicate his apprehension. I had no other choice! The brown star pulsated—nearing supernova. The manager boy recoiled in shock as I pushed the old man down the slide, headfirst. Cursing me with hostile foreign jibberish, he disappeared around the first turn. In an instant, I followed, hurling myself down the slick, plastic vortex.
The fury of the slide was incredible. Rolling and spinning, I gathered speed quickly. The angle of the chute dipped to nearly seventy degrees, increasing my velocity as I careened from side to side, the water turning to white, angry foam. Ricocheting from a high, banking wall, the impact smashed me like some fecal-laden pinata. I lost control, discharging a foul, liquid trail.
A child screamed somewhere behind me, as I slid toward certain humiliation below. Frantically, I grabbed at the back of my Speedo, in a desperate attempt to flush myself clean. To my dismay, a fetid school of dung-guppies spilled into the churning maelstrom.
Nearing the final turn, the old man was standing upright in the tunnel in front of me, I’m sure, to exact some sort of revenge. His sinewy muscles were tensed, rage filled his dilated eyes. But with youth, and gravity, on my side, I swiftly took him out at the ankles. A palsied hand grabbed me as we tumbled out of the chute, and into the pool.
Moments later, a wailing boy fell behind us, riding the crest of a polluted wave. Thinking fast, I collared the old man, and dragged him onto the concrete deck. A lifeguard confronted us as people ran screaming from the pool in pale-faced terror. I explained to the guard how the old man had soiled the waters, how obviously the speed and excitement had proven too much for a man of his age and condition.
Unable to comprehend my story, or explain himself, the old man could only respond with a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks, vective, and obscene gestures. I suggested that he was hysterical from embarassment and that in the best interests of everyone that he be removed from the park—immediately.
The guard eyed me with suspicion, but had no alternative but to believe my story. Fortunately, the force of the waters had washed me thoroughly of any incriminating evidence. I gathered Beulah and Eugene, and made a dash for the parking lot. I’m sure the truth eventually surfaced, but not until we were safely on the interstate, heading back home.





from www.craigslist.org/about/best/den/235728006.html
(Thu 4th Dec 2008, 12:00, More)

» Shoplifting

Beer Garden
This story should have been made into a movie, it was so heartwarming. Resulted in the best 21st party ever that I'd been to.

This was in Richmond Melbourne, drinking at the local in the beer garden one Friday night, just the four of us, 3 guys and 1 girl. We were the only customers in the beer garden aside from a middle aged couple supping port and brandy or whatnot in the corner.

After a few beers, we discovered a keg, just sitting there in the beer garden. Assumed it was empty, but just in case.. Jamie went over and tried to pick it up. It was full.

Conversation soon turned to how great it would be to have at Jamie's upcoming 21st. Keg stands in the bathtub etc. That mythical beast.

If only we weren't locked in the beer garden. Just for a laugh, Jason tries his house key in the locked gate of the garden.. holy shit it worked, it was a miracle.. we now have a full keg, blind ambition and 3 hideously drunk young men rolling a keg up Richmond hill at 9pm on a Friday.

The middle aged couple politely ignored us.

It was kept in the bathroom for a week or so, paranoid that the po were going to come and arrest us for keg thievery. The night of the party arrived, the beer was good.. the only clear memory I really have left of that night was watching Jamie handstanding on top of the keg being held up by 3 or 4 people. Absolutely mashed.

Good times. Good party. Crime does pay.
(Mon 14th Jan 2008, 23:13, More)

» Too much information

Clotted Menustration
I asked my friend if he'd done anything newsworthy lately as we were sat together at a small dinner party.

"Well, I spent far too much time last night picking lumps of clotted menstration out of my pubes".

Thanks for that Julian. No really, Cheers.
(Wed 12th Sep 2007, 8:07, More)

» Terrible Parenting

Parents made me Evil
Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really. At the age of 12 I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it.

Dr. Evil.
(Sat 18th Aug 2007, 2:25, More)