» Cheap Tat

Push the fisherman in the boat out.
There are some situatuions when it is completely unacceptable to cut financial corners. Installing smoke alarms, for instance. Child-proofing your house. Parents funeral arrangements. "She doesn't need to look nice where she's going, they're not paricularly judgmental".

This concept is not universal, and quite often some products with a seemingly high mark-up are of similar quality to a cheaper option. And using genetic powers of product assessment, I often manage to save a few pennies purchasing goods that are not exactly 'cutting edge', like a stereotypical thrifty Scotsman.

So allow me, if you will, to take you back to October 2006. It was late in the month when my fiancee uttered to me the four words that are guaranteed to instantly invert a mans world: "My period is late".

Trying to sound as nonchalant as possible I enquired "Oh really, how late?"

"Nearly a month"

And so within half an hour I was in Tesco pharmacy, perusing the aisles in search of a pregnancy test. These particular items have a chameleon-like ability to blend in with the proliferation of curative products available. I sheepishly asked the kind assistant, who discreetly advised me of the whereabouts of the urine activated baby indicators.

The choice was limited to an expensive digital device or a Tesco 'Own Brand' Pregnancy Indicator. Now as far as I'm concerned both items had a similar function: (soon-to-be)Mrs JasperSinister would pee on them, they would celverly sniff out which hormones were present and tell us whether or not we would soon be proud parents to a demon piglet.

And so I returned homewards, my other half disappeared into the bathroom and emerged a few minutes later. The test was negative. To be extra sure she took another. Again, negative. So we decided to sit back and wait for her belated monthly visitor to arrive.

Another week passes without period. With a degree of trepidation I ventured again to Tesco, and this time purchased a pricier digital Baby Indication Device. Took it back to Mrs Sinister, the process was repeated. This time the tale took a (somewhat predictable) twist. This Rolls Royce of pregnancy tests disagreed with Tescos assessment. Mrs Sinister was actually with child. A second test was taken, to establish validity, with identical results.

So apparently when the Tesco Own Brand Baby Indication Device stated 'Not Pregnant' what it actually meant was 'Quite Pregnant'

The conclusion to this story: 9 months later Mrs JasperSinister gave birth to a healthy (and human) baby boy: wrinkly and loud, but also cute, well-behaved and happy.
(Fri 4th Jan 2008, 11:11, More)

» Bastard Colleagues

Call Centre of Cunts
I've worked in a bastard-cunt-fucksocks call centre for over 5 years now. It truly is a place of despair: a company that strives for multi-national status, yet employs fuckwits of unparalleld witlessness.

(The fuckers also pay a pittance and I'm so deeply ashamed of my job I am reluctant to meet new people for fear of them politely enquiring as to what I do what a living. Apologies for the digression from topic, but the place really is evil.)

Due to the lackadaisical employment screening process the number of bastard colleagues is through the roof, so here are the details of a couple of the star players:

Captain Bob: Captain Bob was my manager for nearly a year, and is actually a pretty decent guy.

However, Captain Bob is ex-SBS (I am not privy to his actual rank, so 'Captain' Bob is merely a comedy nickname). Captain Bob has done HALO drops, diffused semtex devices underwater and probably killed several people. And this was sometimes reflected in his management style.

For instance, a friend of mine sadly passed away and I was told I was not entitled to attend the funeral as I had taken a day off the previous week. He is a good guy though, and I would certainly not want to get on the wrong side of him.

'The Gage': His surname was Gage, therefore he liked to be known as 'The Gage' and would refer to himself in the first person (like Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson).

The term 'compulsive lying' does not even begin to describe the torrent of bullshit that would stream forth from his lips at any given moment.

If you were in the pub with him and two attractive girls walked in, 'The Gage' had slept with them both (but you couldn't go and talk to them, as that would just be awkward. Obviously).

He used to buy high-grade weed from "black dudes with guns".

He had broken his back when he was hit by a car (it transpired he had bruised his back play-fighting with one of his mates).

He had passed an RAF fitness test and was waiting for the results of an examination which would entitle him to instantly become an officer when he joined. He was confident he would pass.

He didn't drive, he had stolen a BMW while still only provisionally licensed, this resulted in a high speed chase and his license was revoked.

One of my mates (b3tan bongmaster *waves*) and myself informed two female colleagues of 'The Gages' status as a world class bullshitter, 'The Gage' found out that we had been bad-mouthing him and accosted us outside a local nightspot. Apparently "The Gage has slashed folk for less than that".

Apologies for length, but if you think that's long you should see the cock on 'The Gage'.
(Thu 24th Jan 2008, 12:45, More)

» Stalked

This isn't actually very funny
This happened just over 3 years ago. I had crashed at a mates house one night in the summer, for an evening of carefree powder abuse and copious bong comsumption.

At the time I was still living with my mum and dad. My dad called me in the evening to ask if I'd remembered to lock the door when I left. the practise was for me to lock the front door and leave the key in a cubby hole in the wall. When they had come home the front door had been slightly ajar, the key back in the usual place.

I didn't think much of it at the time, got mashed with my friends and had a generally pleasent evening. Drove home the next afternoon, my parents were away out so I let myself in the front door. First thing I noticed was a piece of paper on the stairs. It was a quote from a Hunter S Thompson novel that had been sitting on the desk in my room. "Very odd" thinks I.

And so I go up into my bedroom. All of my drawers had been pulled out and replaed so they were sitting at an angle half hanging off the runners. My bong had been tipped over and a pile of magazines next to my bed (just Evo and Top Gear, no pr0n) had been rifled through and were lying scattered around the place. Further to this, a pair of black Sloggi For Men boxer shorts had been removed from my underwear drawer.

A very strange occurence, I'm sure you will agree. Someone had let themself into my parents house, crept around till they found my room and gone through all my personal belongings.

There was a £400 Yamaha Semi-Acoustic Classical Guitar, a slimline PS2, a set of decent Gemini turntables, two boxes of records, a Cambridge Audio amp, a Sony TV, an LG DVD player and a stash box with substantial amounts of various illicit substances and cash in my room, all of which were untouched, so theft was clearly not a motive (apart from the theft of my keks apparently).

I was pretty creeped out for a few days, but nothing else happened and there have been no similar occurences since then.

I also hope whoever has my attractive underwear is getting a lot of 'use' out of them.

(Looking back it maybe is kind of funny, in a black comedy kind of way)
(Thu 31st Jan 2008, 16:31, More)

» Dumb things you've done

JasperSinister/Mobile Phone = Unmixy things
To further compound my previous post, and establish my status as a 'Dumb Cunt' I will share with you this tale of unparalleled social cock-up.

A few years ago myself and a good friend of mine (he is a b3ta regular, and introduced me to this inspirational community **waves**) had a business as purveyors of exotic herbs (having recently become a father I should inform you, dear reader, that I no longer partake in such nefarious practices as the consumption and supply of illicit substances). Just a small operation it was, but we had a few regular clients. On one ocassion one of our more regular customers asked us to provide some of our product to a female acquaintance of his.

I knew her in passing and offered to drop off some small bags of hyrdoponic vegetation on my way home. I sent her a text message to announce my imminent arrival at the designated meeting place. The transaction went unhindered: small talk was made, a bong of green was smoked and I went on my merry way.

In my THC induced stupor I thought it would be funny to send my partner-in-crime a comedy text outlining the finer points of my recent interaction. The text read as such "XXXXX is gagging for it, but she smells like Chinese food". I chortled happily at my biting satirical genius and sent the text to my friend, who would no doubt be rolling on the floor, literally pissing himself and suffering hilarity induced seizures upon reading it. As the beneficiary of my textual wit was my best friend and business partner he was constantly the first name on my phones list of recent message recipients. But not this time. The last person I had sent a message to was, in actuality, the girl to whom I had just sold a small amount of weed. The girl who I had just written a completely hilarious message about, outlining her desire to copulate with me AND comparing her odour to that of an Asian takeaway. Shit biscuits.

And this is why JasperSinister and mobile phones make uneasy bedfellows.

Length? I don't think she was eager to find out
(Fri 28th Dec 2007, 11:32, More)

» Dumb things you've done

I like Pie!
Common sense is, to me, a completely alien concept. The majority of my waking hours are spent losing car keys, forgetting to take my wallet to the supermarket or suffering a multitude of injuries through minor household accidents.

On ocassion, however, I do manage to surpass the high standards of ineptitude that I have consistently set for myself over the last 25 years of existing. For example: last week I left work for my half hour lunch break, and drove to meet my fiancee at her parents house brimming with anticipation of what tasty treats I may be about to receive. "Fantastic!" thinks I "A hot scotch pie with baked beans!" And so I sit down and begin to ravenously devour my pie (snigger). But to describe this pie as merely 'hot' would be somewhat of an understatement. For my pastry and mince composition had been sitting under a grill for roughly half an hour, and had undergone a thermogenic reaction that had rendered it 'REALLY FUCKING HOT'. So with gritted teeth it was that I began to eat this piping delight, taking only the smallest morsels in an attempt to lessen the fiery discomfort. I managed to consume the majority, but upon scooping the last forkful into my mouth I was severly scalded. "Ow fuck!, thats too hot to chew" thinks I. So I attempted to swallow a piece of burning meat shrouded in pastry, which was roughly the size of a hens egg, in one go. It got stuck. In my throat. Not wanting to reveal my embarassing pie/throat dichotomy I mumbled a farewell to my infant son, my fiancee and her parents and made my way back to work.

I tried several glasses of water and cups of tea to wash the offending pie slab out of my gullet but it was to no avail: I had to consult one of the First Aid practitioners who offer assistance in situations such as the consumption of searing baked goods. Their advice was inspiring: "Well its made of pastry so it should soften up and slide down, but if its been in there for more than 20 minutes we need to call an ambulance" Not wanting to draw any more attention to the situation I opted to drive myself over to Accident & Emergency.

I casually approached the reception: "I'm hoping you can help me, my windpipe is obstructed and I have been advised to seek medial assitance". The receptionist enquired in her kindest voice "What is it that is causing this obstruction?" I replied: "Um.....well its a large bit of scotch pie" Her attempts at stifling her laughter were duly noted, and appreciated. Within minutes a very helpful nurse approached me, I explained the situation and her reponse was thus: "You should try washing it down with Coca-Cola, as it relaxes the gullet and the.....'obstruction'.......should slide down". So I drank some of the afore mentioned beverage, she gently massaged my neck and to my great relief, the irritant in my throat descended, unhindered, into my stomach.

So take heed, b3tans: always make sure your food is at an appropriate eating temperature; always chew it thoroughly before attempting to swallow it and if you are dumb enough to get something lodged in your throat the disoldging process will be aided by coke and a massage!

(Insert joke about undergoing a 'dislodging process' while enjoying 'coke and a massage' on a previous, unrelated ocassion)



Apologies for length: it must have been about four inches down my throat (insert generic fellatio joke)
(Fri 28th Dec 2007, 11:01, More)