i also recommend you see graham chapman's 'looks like a brown trouser job' lecture dvd
has a few keith moon stories on it, and other similiar stuff python/chapman fans will enjoy
his talkshow appearance with a few moon stories; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fM4nR0wR0Y0

Aww shucks! Was going to post this. By the way on of the songs in this montage is called, "Masculine Women and Feminine Men"
(E. Leslie - J.V Monaco)

Masculine women, feminine men,
Which is the rooster, which is the hen?
It's hard to tell 'em apart today! And, say!

Sister is busy learning to shave,
Brother just got a permanent wave,
It's hard to tell 'em apart today! Hey, hey!

Girls were girls and boys were boys when I was a tot,
Now we don't know who's who, even what's what!

Knickers and trousers, baggy and wide,
Nobody knows who's walking inside,
Those masculine women and feminine men!

>> ^Jinx:
Haha, that was great. Ricky Gervais talking to guy with no trousers on about about philosophy. Amazing.


Yes, that is exactly what happened.

Well done.

Haha, that was great. Ricky Gervais talking to guy with no trousers on about about philosophy. Amazing.

>> ^ant:
>> ^Kerotan:
That's 15 seconds of my time I could have better spent doing nothing. Oh well.

It was over 3.5 minutes long.


Its a good thing I realised that I't wasn't going anywhere fast and skipped through the video, saw the clapper trousers nearly died laughing, and then wondered if there is a correlation between bad business ideas and the terrible nature of music that they use to promote them.

In reply to this comment by lavoll:
*promote

Thanks a lot for the promote.
I really thought this would get sifted but oh well.

Reminds me of that joke - how do you circumcise a redneck? kick his cousin in the jaw.

but this is just horrifying. my penis hurt a bit just reading about it.

I loled at the story. Very poetic.

I sit down on the bed and she knee on between my legs, startet to open my trousers. My penis is already hard like steel-pipe. She took him carefully into the mouth and I see the stars .... when suddenly the impossible happens.

My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip. So, I called myself Pip, and came to be called Pip.

I give Pirrip as my father's family name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister - Mrs. Joe Gargery, who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or my mother, and never saw any likeness of either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on my father's, gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man, with curly black hair. From the character and turn of the inscription, "Also Georgiana Wife of the Above," I drew a childish conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine - who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle - I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence.

Ours was the marsh country, down by the river, within, as the river wound, twenty miles of the sea. My first most vivid and broad impression of the identity of things, seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon towards evening. At such a time I found out for certain, that this bleak place overgrown with nettles was the churchyard; and that Philip Pirrip, late of this parish, and also Georgiana wife of the above, were dead and buried; and that Alexander, Bartholomew, Abraham, Tobias, and Roger, infant children of the aforesaid, were also dead and buried; and that the dark flat wilderness beyond the churchyard, intersected with dykes and mounds and gates, with scattered cattle feeding on it, was the marshes; and that the low leaden line beyond, was the river; and that the distant savage lair from which the wind was rushing, was the sea; and that the small bundle of shivers growing afraid of it all and beginning to cry, was Pip.

"Hold your noise!" cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch. "Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat!"

A fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg. A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles, and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.

"O! Don't cut my throat, sir," I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir."

"Tell us your name!" said the man. "Quick!"

"Pip, sir."

"Once more," said the man, staring at me. "Give it mouth!"

"Pip. Pip, sir."

"Show us where you live," said the man. "Pint out the place!"

I pointed to where our village lay, on the flat in-shore among the alder-trees and pollards, a mile or more from the church.

The man, after looking at me for a moment, turned me upside down, and emptied my pockets. There was nothing in them but a piece of bread. When the church came to itself - for he was so sudden and strong that he made it go head over heels before me, and I saw the steeple under my feet - when the church came to itself, I say, I was seated on a high tombstone, trembling, while he ate the bread ravenously.

"You young dog," said the man, licking his lips, "what fat cheeks you ha' got."

I believe they were fat, though I was at that time undersized for my years, and not strong.

"Darn me if I couldn't eat em," said the man, with a threatening shake of his head, "and if I han't half a mind to't!"

I earnestly expressed my hope that he wouldn't, and held tighter to the tombstone on which he had put me; partly, to keep myself upon it; partly, to keep myself from crying.

"Now lookee here!" said the man. "Where's your mother?"

"There, sir!" said I.

He started, made a short run, and stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"There, sir!" I timidly explained. "Also Georgiana. That's my mother."

"Oh!" said he, coming back. "And is that your father alonger your mother?"

"Yes, sir," said I; "him too; late of this parish."

"Ha!" he muttered then, considering. "Who d'ye live with - supposin' you're kindly let to live, which I han't made up my mind about?"

"My sister, sir - Mrs. Joe Gargery - wife of Joe Gargery, the blacksmith, sir."

"Blacksmith, eh?" said he. And looked down at his leg.

After darkly looking at his leg and me several times, he came closer to my tombstone, took me by both arms, and tilted me back as far as he could hold me; so that his eyes looked most powerfully down into mine, and mine looked most helplessly up into his.

"Now lookee here," he said, "the question being whether you're to be let to live. You know what a file is?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you know what wittles is?"

"Yes, sir."

After each question he tilted me over a little more, so as to give me a greater sense of helplessness and danger.

"You get me a file." He tilted me again. "And you get me wittles." He tilted me again. "You bring 'em both to me." He tilted me again. "Or I'll have your heart and liver out." He tilted me again.

I was dreadfully frightened, and so giddy that I clung to him with both hands, and said, "If you would kindly please to let me keep upright, sir, perhaps I shouldn't be sick, and perhaps I could attend more."

He gave me a most tremendous dip and roll, so that the church jumped over its own weather-cock. Then, he held me by the arms, in an upright position on the top of the stone, and went on in these fearful terms:

"You bring me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles. You bring the lot to me, at that old Battery over yonder. You do it, and you never dare to say a word or dare to make a sign concerning your having seen such a person as me, or any person sumever, and you shall be let to live. You fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted and ate. Now, I ain't alone, as you may think I am. There's a young man hid with me, in comparison with which young man I am a Angel. That young man hears the words I speak. That young man has a secret way pecooliar to himself, of getting at a boy, and at his heart, and at his liver. It is in wain for a boy to attempt to hide himself from that young man. A boy may lock his door, may be warm in bed, may tuck himself up, may draw the clothes over his head, may think himself comfortable and safe, but that young man will softly creep and creep his way to him and tear him open. I am a-keeping that young man from harming of you at the present moment, with great difficulty. I find it wery hard to hold that young man off of your inside. Now, what do you say?"

I said that I would get him the file, and I would get him what broken bits of food I could, and I would come to him at the Battery, early in the morning.

"Say Lord strike you dead if you don't!" said the man.

I said so, and he took me down.

"Now," he pursued, "you remember what you've undertook, and you remember that young man, and you get home!"

"Goo-good night, sir," I faltered.

"Much of that!" said he, glancing about him over the cold wet flat. "I wish I was a frog. Or a eel!"

At the same time, he hugged his shuddering body in both his arms - clasping himself, as if to hold himself together - and limped towards the low church wall. As I saw him go, picking his way among the nettles, and among the brambles that bound the green mounds, he looked in my young eyes as if he were eluding the hands of the dead people, stretching up cautiously out of their graves, to get a twist upon his ankle and pull him in.

When he came to the low church wall, he got over it, like a man whose legs were numbed and stiff, and then turned round to look for me. When I saw him turning, I set my face towards home, and made the best use of my legs. But presently I looked over my shoulder, and saw him going on again towards the river, still hugging himself in both arms, and picking his way with his sore feet among the great stones dropped into the marshes here and there, for stepping-places when the rains were heavy, or the tide was in.

The marshes were just a long black horizontal line then, as I stopped to look after him; and the river was just another horizontal line, not nearly so broad nor yet so black; and the sky was just a row of long angry red lines and dense black lines intermixed. On the edge of the river I could faintly make out the only two black things in all the prospect that seemed to be standing upright; one of these was the beacon by which the sailors steered - like an unhooped cask upon a pole - an ugly thing when you were near it; the other a gibbet, with some chains hanging to it which had once held a pirate. The man was limping on towards this latter, as if he were the pirate come to life, and come down, and going back to hook himself up again. It gave me a terrible turn when I thought so; and as I saw the cattle lifting their heads to gaze after him, I wondered whether they thought so too. I looked all round for the horrible young man, and could see no signs of him. But, now I was frightened again, and ran home without stopping.

This isn't anything really to do with 9/11 or police states or anything. They're just doing it so they can make enough busts to met some target or because they're bored and want a power trip. It's starting operating procedure all over the developed world: there are things the police (or TSA/customs/etc) can not order you to do such as answer questions, open bags, take off clothes, things like that - it varies of course. If you stick to your rights and politely refuse, they generally try two tricks:

1) Request disguised as order. It can be pretty intimidating especially if you're alone around several officers as I was at airport Customs recently. They will do things like say in a formal, stern voice "Would you empty your trouser/pants pockets onto that table please?" which they make sound like an order but it isn't and if you obey, hey, they just asked, nothing wrong with that.

2) Escalate. Won't co-operate? We'll bring in the FBI and DEA, or we'll take you down town for questioning. Been caught speeding and the cop suspects you of carrying weed? They'll give you a choice of a ticket and a search, or to be "taken down town". This is often a bluff (bringing someone in for no reason is a lot of hassle for the officer) and even if it isn't, it's only a police station - except for making you be late, nothing's changed. Don't admit to anything and demand a lawyer sooner rather than later. Even if you've nothing to hide, there is the principal of the matter and anyway, you never know what might be around - maybe a friend left a roach on the floor in the back.

Keep alert. Don't say anything you don't have to. If in doubt, ask if instruction is a legal order or a request, like this guy does. Finally, be polite and restrained, physically and verbally. If you go beyond sticking to your rights and get angry, you might say something careless and you'll certainly piss the cops off and increase their determination and of course, if it kicks off you will get your ass handed to you, by the cops and then by Bubba.

YMMV. IANAL.

*promote trousers made of leather

brown trousers !

"Now just you drop them trousers and squeal like a doe!"

^ LadyBug

i just pull down my trousers and my gf gets to work

Hitchens is just too smart for O'Reilly, his show and it's audience to understand when Hitchens kicks O'Reilly's ass.

When O'Reilly attempts to end the segment by restating his 'opinion' and declaring there is no reason object to it Hitchens smoothly makes a quick enough response to get in before air time closes: "We've barely got our trousers off, we should pursue this." He even manages to express his humor, contempt and love to offend in that one line too.

Considering the staggering number of times that someone sat on a console, I'd hate to be on the Enterprise's janitorial staff. They must have spent half their time Windexing ass prints off the keypads.

I am sorry sir, I would show you on the science terminal but Riker sweated through his polyester trousers and I am not touching that thing!