Dragging Some Fun Back To The Sift, Kickin' and Bitchin'!

Alright peeps, how's it hangin? I'm back, I know you all missed me. Don't bother saying you hadn't noticed, it's obvious the huge void i'd left in your lives. But fear not! I bring with me some more pointless yet wonderful sift posts to get all your juices flowing so to speak What now you say? Well...

This time i'd like you all to tell me a story. Something that has happened in your life. It doesn't matter what, it could be the worst, best, scariest, funniest thing to have occured. Highlights, turning points, weepies any life dramas i'd love to hear.

So of course I wouldn't expect you to do this for nowt. Two promotes are up for grabs. Please upvote any story that entertained you in any way. Once those posts get applauded they will be in the running to win, but (teehee) my decision will be final

Enjoy guys!

http://woohoo.videosift.com/talk/And-The-Winner-Is-1
kulpims says...

I once saw this guy promote a sift talk with nothing worthwhile to share afterwards

edit: I really want to tell you a story, a_c. only, I've been smoking weed for the most of my life, can't remember what I had for breakfast... you should ask my grandfather instead, he turned 100 last wednesday

schmawy says...

So, this one time, at boyscouts...

...seriously, we used to meet in the basement of a big, wooden 18th century church in the evening. It was one night in the fall, and I was waiting for someone to pick me up, and it was going to be a half an hour or so. I went up the narrow staircase behind the altar and sat on the at the step before it, right in the gap in the railing that people kneel at to eat pieces of Jesus.

So what does an idle fifteen-year-old think about when he's sitting looking out at the pews in a old, darkened New England Church? He assumes that he has the undivided attention of the Almighty. So what he decides to do is ask for proof.

Something like, "Hey God, can you give me some kinda sign?" Nothing. I got up to leave when something, a flag pole, or broom handle, or something like it fell over and made a tremendous racket. So my entire heathenous life I've had this nagging feeling that I'm going to get up to the holy gates and he's gonna say, "you asked...".

NeuralNoise says...

Allright, here´s a long story for your entertainment and pleasure:

Two years ago I'm walking back from a friend´s place in Brooklyn.
When I'm under the Williamsburgh bridge I see two guys maybe 20 mts behind me. I didn't think it would be anything, like, just people on the street.
Still, a sixth sense makes me walk as fast as I can, which is not much due to a motorcycle disaster that happened exactly six months before that night, and there is a bunch of titanium here and there.

As I approach the door on the place where I'm staying, a B&B called The Guest House, I'm faced with a dillema of which lock to try first, the multi-lock or the knob lock. As sometimes the multi is not locked, I go for the knob first. Doesnt work and the two guys corner me by the door.

They were both black, light skinned and nearly stereotypically dressed in oversized basketball clothes, one has a doorag and the other a unibrow.

The first one shows me a gun and say in a manner that is not encouraging:
"DONT TURN THIS INTO A HOMICIDE"
To which i reply
"YOU dont turn this into a homicide!"
He shouts "OPEN the door!"

As if I wasn't scared enough I get this feeling that once inside the situation would escalate. They would be in there, with a gun, no hurry, and could rape, kill, rob and who knows what. Plus if someone sees them getting in and call the police I'd be in a hostage situation.

So the guy shouts again OPEN THE DOOR
and stalling for time I reply "please don't hurt me", exaggerating a fear that was there anyway.
He takes the keys from my hands and tries to open the door himself. He doesn't manage.

He point the gun at me and now he is angry.
"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR NOW!!!!!"
To which my big mouth replies "you have the keys, man, just open the door!"
He tries a bit more, the other guy takes my wallet and phone from my pockets.
As I´m turned to the guy opening the door the other one hits me in the face so hard that I had a hard time eating for months.
I didn't see it coming so i couldn't even flinch, full hit.
As I get a hold of myself they are gone.

I stay five minutes without moving and then I get in.
I tried to see if there is anyone at home but no one answers. I call the house cat but the cat doesn't come. Some cat therapy would have been nice at that point. I go to my room and (luckily) only then I start suffering from delayed courage, and decide to go out. I changed my red shirt into a black one, put my wolverine coat, hand making in my pocket making a "menacing" volume and go out to search for discarded items. The logic is, if they see me out again with a volume in my pocket they would think I'm crazy and might have a gun. I soon realize the fragility of my logic, as well as my own and go back inside. I cant sleep. I sit in the bed until sunrise and sleep dressed for two hours.

Then I called the police. Police officers like to chitchat. "Oh, many stamps in your passport. you travel a lot. You travel Varig? I used to refuel varig airplanes before becoming a cop." After they leave I go to work. I repeat the route from the previous night and I find my phone. I cancelled the credit cards so pretty much I got beaten up for ten dollars.

Later that day the police calls and make me go to the precinct. I was surprised that they like to play good cop bad cop with the victim too.

angry cop: why you called this morning instead of last night!?
me: I had no phone and was really shaken by the experience! sorry!
Calm cop: it's ok, no big deal
angry cop: did you drink? Were you drinking?
me: I drank some wine but was fine!!!
calm cop: hey, thats fine.

And after that they hold me for hours while I look at mugshots on a computer screen that displays six pictures at a time, takes a minute to load the next six, and had a lot of repeated pictures. I Do not believe in anthropometry, but boy those people were ugly. I wonder if they were so ugly they couldn't get a job and resorted to crime. Or maybe good-looking criminals get arrested less often?

I ask the detective what were the chances of me actually being shot there.
He says: "well, we have around five fatal shootings a year in that neighborhood."
That´s probably what we have in a single DAY in Sao Paulo and I was never mugged there. On the other hand it means one fatal shooting every two months, so it could very well have been my turn.

The detective then says "I'd say you had a 50-50 chance of being shot. If you reacted and the gun was real (and wouldn't it be real, in THIS country?) they would likely shoot me. So I´m glad about the delayed courage and the delayed strategy of wrestling for the gun and kick the living shit out of them.

I have to say it was a bit humiliating being robbed in NY, like being a statistical oddity.

alien_concept says...

That's all we need to know pims, all we need to know

Issy, my god I think we're on the umm... fourth episode of season 3 and it's AMAZING! Lost is just surpassing itself in every way too, woohoo bout frickin time.

Ok i'll start you off then if I must.

This was one of the weirdest things to happen. I was young and reckless and completely rebellious and decided one day to jump the train with my friend to London. She knew some fellas up there who would put us up and I briefly knew who they were and had met them so wasn't particularly concerned. We spent the hour and a half there wedged in the loos smoking out of the window and drinking a bottle each of white cider, bleeeech. By the time we got there I was pretty wasted already, and it was a hot day etc. Wandering through London taking buses to get to this mobile phone shop they all worked in together. Eventually they finished up for the day and we went home to her friends place, by this point I had been given a few spliffs on top of the cider and was really not myself at all. Anyway, when we walked into this apartment there was this guy who was all dressed up in overalls painting the place.

Kelly's friend introduced him just as Steve and that he was doin him a favour decorating his place out for him as he'd not long moved there. He was a total hottie and I was drunk and stoned so had clearly lost any inhibitions and was flirting outrageously. As the evening went on he finished up and came in and sat down to eat with us and get drunk. Of course I was being a total slapper, and he seemingly didn't mind at all. Basically we got a bit frisky and all that jazz but when it came down to it (literally) there was no way I was going there his penis was abnormal and by that I mean gigantic! Scared the living shit out of me. Luckily he wasn't a bad guy and just laughed and we fell asleep all being well.

Next day I got made a complete twat of. Somehow the staff at the home I was living in had gotten hold of Kelly's number and rang her Mum who had done a 1471 when Kel phoned her the night before and gave the number to my social worker. So the next morning this guy who's flat we're in gets a very shitty phone call telling him that he had two underage girls who have run away, one in local authority care and that if he didn't take us to a police station so we could get home they would ring the cops and get them arrested. So yeah that was horrible, especially seeing as i'd lied about my age haha. Fucking embarrassing, but I was glad to get out of there after that. We had to wait in the police station until they could get a taxi driver who was willing to drive all the way to London from Bournemouth and then back again. Some stupid red tape funding issues stopped us just getting a taxi from London as it was going to be Social Services paying it, not us outright. Eventually some guy got there, and we fell asleep in the back of the car.

Woke up to find ourselves off road somewhere in the New Forest!! We absolutely shit ourselves, neither of us had a phone. All the lights were off and the driver was passed out in his seat, it was about 2am. We demanded he wake up not trusting him or the situation, it all felt very weird. He tried to tell us he was just needing a nap or he couldn't drive but we both started crying and panicking, so the poor bastard was left with little choice. Finally got home, acted like the little twat I was when they started questioning me about where I had been and what i'd been doing, as if they had no right to worry about me, god I was such a prick sometimes haha.

So I got lumped with paying that whole bill off, took me nearly a year to finish. As far as I was concerned though, it had been a little adventure and something in me when I was young craved independence so much I didn't think twice about doing stupuid stuff. The end of this story was the weirdest part...

This Steve had through his friend told Kelly a few times he wanted to meet up with me again and blah blah. I was never interested, mostly cos unless I was drunk the male species pretty much perplexed me even up until I was about 17! Turned out it was a good job I never went there. About 6 months later I get a phone call from Kelly telling me to turn the fucking tv on NOW. The Cook Report was on, some investigative journo Roger Cook used to go around doing exposes on stuff, he was one of the first people to do a show such as that. And there he was, this Steve. Turned out he wasn't a painter and decorator, he was the owner of a chain of phone shops and he had fraudulently made hundreds and thousands of pounds in stolen and contract phones. Jesus Christ

I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, but I can safely say I've never been as reckless since!

RhesusMonk says...

In June of '07, I went down to Ecuador to train at an archaeological field school. I was an Anthro minor and intended to pursue a career in Biological Anthropology, specializing in molecular clocking (deducing rates of evolution through DNA base pair variation), and wanted some kind of field experience before finishing undergrad. I just googled archae field schools and picked one. It was run by a university in Florida to which I had no connection whatsoever. It was run by two profs and had two separate classes: one in archaeology (digging) and one in ethnography (meeting people and writing about them). I ended up in the archaeological field school.

Upon arriving, I met the rest of the participants. Many of them knew each other, and I was somewhat of a novelty. The first night, I managed to take the smart but prudish girl back to my room for some "Hey, I just met you, why don't we fool around" action. Little did I know what I was getting into.

She turned out to be crazy. Like top-notch, grade A, never-been-kissed, "I'll give you $100 to take my virginity" crazy. It didn't take me long to make it clear that I was not that in need of cash, and that I was not falling in love. This did not go over well, and for the first two weeks of the six week program, I had to apologize to every fucking person in the camp for subjecting them to the tears of this crazy, immature, raving girl.

However, (this is where it gets interesting) during those first two weeks, I was spending all day in the field away from Crazy, who was studying ethnography in the coastal village where we were camped about 6km away. All day, I was troweling dirt and plotting pits next to one of the hottest and most engaged-to-be-married 20 year old girls I've ever met. At first, her neutrality as a "spoken for" woman was a good haven from the rest of the crowd, who were still kind of up-in-arms about my bagging and bouncing Ms. Crazy. And so, my pit partner and I got along swimmingly, spending the grueling but relieved-from-social-antagonism days talking about this and that. Now, I gotta tell ya, I'm a strapping lad (about 2m ((that's 6'6")) and 115kg ((250 lbs))) and I was very good at the field work. There is very little that impresses women, especially 20 year old engaged-to-be-married women, like being physically excellent at something right in front of them.

Around the end of week two, I started to notice that my pit partner and I were getting all electric and stuff around each other, making eyes and whispering sweet nothings as we toiled away in our dirt hole. Things got spicier and spicier, especially when I found out that the fiance was a wannabe prize fighter who couldn't hold a job, had cheated on her, and held his crotch rocket in about as much esteem as his wife-to-be (also, he bought her a $20k ring and made her mother make the payments on it). As I clearly could not give a flying cockroach's penis about this douche, I let myself really fall for this girl.

At the end of week three, we had four days off to travel wherever we chose. As I tend to be a loner if I don't find a very, very like-minded crony, I was planning to head south to Cuenca for a long weekend of solo traveling. But, as luck/fate/coincidence would have it, I met the soon-to-be-married lady and her traveling group at the bus stop just outside the village, also planning to go to Cuenca. Their group was minus a strong leader and without much Spanish, so I hooked up with them, "and it has made all the difference."

In Cuena, the girl and I fell in love. We didn't touch each other that weekend, but luck/fate/coincidence left us alone together too many times for there not to have been meaning in it. We talked by glowing midnight fountains, got lost on a house party dancefloor, drank too much shitty beer, and stared at the stars from the rooftop we had to crawl out a hotel window to sit on. Neither of us mentioned it out loud, but only used strong suggestion and innuendo. We both knew what was happening, but weren't sure if it was going to work. As I have failed to mention, but the astute reader might already suspect, my former liason Ms. Crazy considered herself to be Soon-to-Be-Married's best friend in Ecuador. She was right there in Cuenca with us the whole time, in complete denial of what was right in her face.

We returned from Cuenca on a Sunday, and I spent Monday and Tuesday white knuckled and sweating as I worked right next to a woman I could have ripped the perfect breast concealing oversized sweatshirt off and really gotten dirty. As she was engaged and about as virtuous as they come these days, no one suspected a thing. We were headed right straight towards Affair City on our pheromone and hormone fueled freight train, and no one else even had a whiff of it.

To this day, not one of the 20 or so other students has any idea that on that Tuesday after Cuenca, as we sat on the porch of my cabin--me playing guitar and her studying for the GRE--this girl and I began one of the world's greatest love affairs. That night, we finally put into words the feelings and fears, and each one assured the other that it would be safe as long as no one knew. At a peak moment in the conversation, I must have asked something like "Well, what's next, then?" The words she answered still echo in my mind whenever I have trouble sleeping. Sultry, slow and with head tilted, she said, "You wanna test the waters?" and glided across the porch and into my lightless room. I sat thinking Oh my god. She just fucking went into my cabin. Holy fuck, I'm gonna. Fuck. Shit. Wow. Wait a sec, she's in my cabin. STFU and get in there! She had to open the door to check if I was coming before the dazzle faded from my mind. I pushed her back into the darkness.

That was nearly two years ago now, and as I write, I am putting this princess to bed in our apartment in Taipei. We carried on an illicit affair, with trysts on 1 a.m. beaches, in shower stalls and in my Pacific breeze filled cabin for a month in Ecuador, and it has lasted to this day, across four continents and literally around the world. I have never written this story down before, and I just thank AC for giving me the forum.

rasch187 says...

It's not worthwhile, but I guess I can share a story...

Some years ago I was spending a week at a friend's summer cabin by the sea, the weather was perfect and we had a great time. After a couple of days we met a mutual aquiantance whom we both can't stand. Let's just call him X. He's the kind of guy who has very rich parents and is proud to show it off, designer clothes, gold watches and always bragging about it. We knew him from school but had never spent any time with him privately. So we meet him at a party and just ignore eachother at first. Some hours later he takes me aside and starts accusing me of "stealing" the girl he was interested in. My response that "life isn't fair" doesn't amuse him one bit.

The following day we eventually get back to my friend's cabin and discover about 10 bags of thrash have been emptied on the lawn. We're both a bit perplexed but just start picking it up. Later that day I mention this to a girl we partied with the night before and she tells me X has been bragging to everyone about getting back at me by dumping trash all over my friend's lawn. I guess it made sense in his mind.

I'm not really a guy who likes getting into arguments, but there was no turning back at that moment. So the next day I get an excellent idea. X's family had just built this ENORMOUS new cabin in the poshest part of town, right by the sea. The place looked like a castle and even had a small island just in front of the main enterance. So my friend and I pick up this really cheesy advertising mascot, which is about 5 ft. tall (pictured here), borrow a small cement mixer from a friend of ours and go by boat to X's cabin. After making sure no one was home we use about 50 kilos of cement to make sure this awful mascot was firmly attached to the small island just next to his house. Then we jumped back in the boat and opened some beers to celebrate.

The only thing I regret is not seeing the look on his face when he first saw it. Hahahaha.

Edeot says...

When I was seven or so I was walking down the road with my sister one afternoon. As we passed the large ranch on the right I made up my mind to finally go and touch one of their beautiful riding horses.

So, on my sister's encouragement, I made my way to the side of the house, braving the awful creek and seemingly insurmountable mass of poison ivy. There might have even been a garden snake!

I walked up to the fence, damn near close enough to spit on them now, but not close enough to touch, so I swung my leg over the fence. And it was at that moment that I learned an important life lesson - It takes more than just a simple fence to prevent a horse from wandering about; it takes an electric fence.

And so I sent about a few thousand volts surging through my pre-pubescent testicles, not once, not twice, but three times. The first time I stood there in shock, straddling the line. The second time I tried to jump off, which probably looked to be a fantastic sight - A short child wiggling about and yelling in pain. By the third I heaved myself off and onto the ground.

I ran/waddled all the way home and carefully examined the boys' condition when I arrived back in my room. Everything was in working order. At least I think. I'll let you know when I try to impregnate a girl.

My sister has not spoken of that day since it happened. It's one of the nicer things she's done for me.

Ornthoron says...

I'll share the story I told peggedbea in the lounge some time ago:

In high school I participated in an exchange program with a school in India. We were a group of 10 or so norwegians who visited the indian school, and also traveled around a bit in India. It is relevant to the story that I was rather longhaired at the time.

India is located in an area with some political tension, so security at indian airports is very high. When we were about to board a domestic flight there was a full patdown of all passengers. India is a very gender segregated society, so it would be unseemly for male security guards to pat down female passengers. So the security routine was that all passengers had to pass a big burly moustachio'd indian military officer on a pedestal who did the patting. But if you were female, he waved you to the side to be patted down by female officers behind a curtain.

So there we all were in a line waiting to be searched for suspicious goods. When it was my turn I went boldly up thinking I had nothing to hide. The moustachio'd one took one look at my long wavy hair and waved me to the side. I looked very questioningly at him since I perceived myself as undeniably male. But he was very stern, and I know better than to argue with a stern foreign military officer with a gun at his side. So I trotted along behind the curtain where two female officers searched my person for threats to national security. They quickly discovered that there had been a mistake and were rather swift to send me on my merry way, even though I gave them my best smile.

gwiz665 says...

Hmm, let's try one of the more upbeat ones, with no particular point.

I've discovered that I have much more swagger and confidence when I speak English than when I'm in Danish. I'm not sure why, but that's what I've noticed.

Two years ago in the summer I put it to the test, when I was back at my home island of Bornholm. A friend of mine from Texas was over here as well, playing at some different bars over here in the summer. We were in the other part of the island at a bar there, when we got to talking with 3 girls and a guy, who was one of the girl's cousin. Now, my buddy only speaks English, so we were just speaking English to these guys too. After a while one of the girls asked me where I was from, since my buddy was from Texas, but I didn't want to say that "i'm from just around the corner 20 miles away from here", so I asked her and the rest to try to guess. Well, they started to guess different states in the US which was a pretty big ego-boost to my English abilities (hmm, or a lack of English skills on their part). Eventually I got them convinced that I was my buddys cousin from Mississippi (even though I talk with a Texan accent).

This deception went on for about a month, where every time we met them, we spoke English to them, and it got increasingly difficult as more people that knew me got involved. We got the whole bar, who basically all knew me, to play along, which I thought was hilarious.

We had a few drunken nights together, which were great, and at one point, when I was showing off on a guitar, they asked me to play a traditional song from Mississippi. That almost fucking nailed me, because I have no idea what music is played there (I thought about playing something about cotton picking, but I decided against it.. gotta love stereotypes). I avoided it by saying that I didn't really cared for the local music and played something else.

I never really exploited the situation, because I'm too much of a chickenshit, but in hindsight I feel pretty good about it (*bites hand*).

Eventually I was busted, when two of the girls came down to my side of the island for a local harbor party. No big scene or anything, it was just "uhm, hello.."

And they were never heard from again...

No point, just a sequence of events in my life.

gwiz665 says...

Oh fuck, I just remembered another story that has a bit more of a point and is less evil, deceiving and such.

This takes place in Aarhus, where I study now, where the same American friend I mentioned above was visiting and playing for the first time there in a long time. So obviously we had to meet up and get hammered. Now, I had to get back with the last bus, around midnight, because I had to travel back to my island for a vacation at 12 noon. I had everything packed ready to go, except my harddrive, which I usually only remove at the last minute, but I was basically ready to go. So beer time.

We met up at the bar he was playing at, at 9 in the evening, I think. One beer took the next and suddenly it was 00:15 and my bus had just left. Fuck, oh well, I'll just have some fun and grab the first bus in the morning back and get a few hours sleep then.

Then came the shots. Fisherman, Jägermeister and other ugly, ugly stuff, and more beer. we stayed at the bar until about 2 or 3, when it closed down, and waltzed down the road looking for a new place to party on. We found a seedy little disco/bar thing, that we wandered into and had a bunch of tequila - I do ever love Tequila.

When it was 6 or 7'ish in the morning we were both heading back to our respective places. We had to take a bus on each side of the road, but at the same stop, so we just "walked" (nearly crawled) down to the bus stop and just hung there for a while. After a while, we had gotten in place on each side of the road, waiting for our respective buses. Mine came first so I hopped on and promptly fell asleep. I thought that this could do, because I only had to get off at the end point anyway, so I would regain consciousness before that (familiar bumps and whatnot). Well, 20 minutes in, I had no fucking idea where I was. Looked out, and couldn't recognize ANYTHING. So I was like, Oh Fuck...

I went up to the bus driver, who looked on me like I was a leper, and asked if it was going to the station I wanted to go to. He said "No, that's not this #11 that's the other #11 on the other side of the road...".

Well, fuck me. Both of us had gotten the wrong bus!

I eventually switched bus and got home to my place at, I think, 8 o'clock. And I promptly collapsed on my bed.

I had to be on a bus heading down to the train station at 12, so this could have gone completely wrong... and it did.

I woke up at 11:30, with a screaming headache, still woozy, and something didn't feel right. So I turned around and there was a nice big puddle of my own vomit in the middle of my bed. "Oh joy", I quietly thought to myself. Of course, that's in hindsight. At the time it was more like "aauuurrrgghhhhh".

I got the sheets of the bed and the bedspread off and put it in the hamper - no time to wash it anyway. Slowly, shakily I removed the harddrive from my computer (lucky, I can do that in my sleep), and tossed it in my bag and was on my way.

But wait! There's more!

In the bus, I had to be for about 30 minutes until it arrived, and halfway it hit a bump and something lurched inside me. "Ooooh fuuuck" I was having dry heaves and cold, cold sweat. In desperation, I grabbed a shirt from my bag and quietly vomited ever so slightly into it - it was even my favorite shirt! I slipped it back into the bag and was not at all in a good mood. 2 minutes after that a woman approached me and asked if my bag was supposed to have that seat all to itself - not the right time to be bitchy at all, if I had had any strength in me at all I would have throttled her where she stood, but alas I was a sick, drunk, tired, head-aching weakling, so I dragged my corpse to the second seat and put my bag on my lap. I was not a happy camper.

When I got to the train, I had to be on it for about 3-4 hours. Two times, I ran to the bathroom and puked again. Good times. The second time, I just stayed out there and fell asleep on the toilet for half an hour. Not my proudest moment.

When I finally arrived home, my dad thought I was dying. I was sick for three days - seriously, hung over, with the vomit and super-happy-fun times and all, for three fucking days.

Yeah, another sequence from the life of Nicki. I hope you enjoy my misery.

videosiftbannedme says...

You mean I finally get to do my first *quality? Woohoo! Drinks are on me.


Ok, so this was years ago, and I was at a friend's birthday party. I had lost a significant amount of weight because I would bicycle everywhere, and I hadn't been out drinking. So I decide, damnit man, ahm Scah-ish, and I'm goun ta drink meh ancestor's drink! So I get a fifth of Cutty Sark and start doing shots. Now, not having ever tried Scotch but once prior to that night, I have to tell ya. It's liquid peat moss. Or maybe just Cutty Sark is. I don't know. But as with any liquor, once you get the first few shots down, you don't even taste or care anymore. So I proceed to drink about more than 1/2 the bottle, as well as a few beers...

So let me lay the scene for you here. We've got a small 1 bedroom apartment crowded with about 30 people. The stereo is up high, and after about 3 hours, I've made it to a chair at the dining room table. I start to get dizzy, so I put my elbows on the table, interlock my fingers and rest my chin in my hands, as I'm looking out into the room. And EVERYTHING is going up and down, in and out, and swirly. You know, like a merry-go-round? I can also hear every word at each of the conversations which were taking place around the room, as well as in whatever song was playing at the time. I don't even remember who eventually was around me but people were saying stuff like "Oh man, look how white he is!" "Dude, you need to go to the bathroom..." And I'm going "No, it's ok. I'm not gonna puke...I'm not gonna"

The last thing I saw was vomit shooting through my interlaced fingers.

So what do you do? Just put yourself there for a minute. Your that fucked up and you just start throwing up. Yup, I cupped my hands together to lean forward and make a bowl with my hands.

Now, physics was the LAST thing on my mind at this point. I forgot a critical variable: volume. Needless to say, I got. it. everywhere. All over the cake, in the ashtrays, people's cigarettes, in people's drinks, on people. Someone told me later I looked like a fire hydrant with an obstruction in the way. Luckily almost everyone there was a friend, so I survived a potential beating. (But at the cost of the ribbing I still take to this day )

So they throw me in the bathroom. Now, I'm conscious enough to know that I don't want someone pissing next to my face as I bow before the Porcelain God, so I lock the door. And promptly pass out. Eventually I finally wake up enough to open the door, and am promptly hauled out passed the line that formed, and am unceremoniously dumped on the bed. The only recollection I have of the rest of the night, is waking up several times lying face down, my hands and arms in the "goalpost" formation, and my head to pointing to the left. Have you ever gotten tired of lying in one position? I lifted my head, just to turn it to the right and got the whole Ferris Wheel action from before. So I kept passing out unable to turn my head.

Next morning, incredibly, I had no hangover. However, that is the only night in my life where I have no recollection of events. You could say I blew the dog and I'd have to take your word on it.

Ah well...it's good for a laugh.

calvados says...

Luckily I wrote this out for somebody a few days ago:

When I was still fairly new in the air and about 22 years old, I was flying from Montreal to Winnipeg by myself in a rented Cessna as part of my pilot training. Because a Cessna 172 goes about 200 KPH and has enough fuel for four hours maximum, and the total distance was over 2,000 km, this meant many hours of flight and a lot of fuel stops.

Nearing the Quebec-Ontario border, I landed in Val d'Or to refuel and get a new weather briefing for my route. I called the weather service and they said I could probably expect to get to Timmins, ON, an hour away, without the three thousand foot ceiling coming down on me. I took off and flew west, and after about half an hour, it sure as hell did.

A hard rain drummed so intensely on my wings that it drowned out the loud drone of the engine and the cloudbase fell rapidly so that I couldn't see far at all. I had just passed Rouyn-Noranda with its airport and I turned back towards it, but by the time I was over downtown the weather made it so I couldn't see the airport anymore even though it was only four miles away. At the time I wasn't qualified to fly by instruments only and I was already in a pickle, and if the weather lowered much more then I would be basically blind and with diminishing hopes of getting to terra firma since only helicopters can land without at least a bit of forward visibility.

I was on the radio with the unicom operator at the airport, but as with most medium-small airports, he was no air-traffic controller, basically just a guy with a radio and a couple other gizmos but no radar and no real training when it came to helping a pilot in trouble -- which I was on the verge of becoming.

I was beginning to fly a sort of ersatz search pattern looking for the airport and I was starting to just head for whatever lights I could see through the darkening fog but they kept turning out to be this farm or that one and the weather seemed to be getting worse, with its attendant visibility loss and my odds slowly but steadily falling off more yet. It was a bit like going 100 on the freeway in fog when you can only see one second in front of you but no way to really slow down or otherwise make things safer. The rainclouds were creeping into the cockpit, damp and cold, and I couldn't help thinking it was the kind of air you find in a tomb.

Then all at once the next cluster of lights turned out to be the Noranda airport and I shouted my glee and relief over the radio. The landing itself was utterly simple and I taxiied to the apron and got out and got wet in the steady rain as I tied the airplane down. As I was finishing up, the rain came down much harder and the sky fell much more and I thanked God I wasn't still up there because getting down without a crash would've been twice as hard. I visited the stubby aerie where the unicom guy sat alone -- we were about the same age -- and I thanked him for his help and hung out for a little while, unwinding, before I called a cab to take me to a hotel in town.

JAPR says...

There sure are a lot of serious stories here, but I think I'll contribute a slightly amusing/too-much-information one, ala Blankfist.

A few weeks ago my girlfriend was visiting for Spring break (she goes to school on the West coast, I go to school on the East coast), and I took her to play a game of Kings with a group of my friends. We play with a different set of rules from those listed in the WikiPedia article, but overall it's pretty much the same game. In any case, one of the cards meant a game of "Never Have I Ever," where you all put up a certain number of fingers (in this case, three) and people take turns saying something they've never done before. If you've done it, you put a finger down, and the first person to run out of fingers loses and has to take a drink.

In any case, as you would guess from drunken college students, many of the things people had never done were sexual in nature, as a way to humorously embarrass the people around you. The group was pretty well-mixed, with almost as many girls as guys. Eventually somebody said "Never have I ever done 69," and my girlfriend and I both had to drop a finger. We were the only ones in the entire room to do so, something that everyone noticed rather quickly.

Later highlights from that game included someone pulling a Jack and making the rule that you had to say "in JAPR's ass" at the end of every phrase or sentence or you had to take a drink, which made the game both awkward and hilarious for me. This was further compounded by my girlfriend pulling a Jack and making the rule that "any time you say 'in JAPR's ass, you have to make an inserting motion.'" The motions made for the next ten minutes of the game got pretty creative. I suspect this may have been a little bit of revenge on her part for embarrassment she felt during the games of Never Have I Ever.

BreaksTheEarth says...

I guess I'll get in on this. Sorry for the length but I don’t like to shorten this story.

I had just moved to Long Beach, California when I was coming home from class one day. I lived in a rather large building with a locked lobby and when I entered there was a man sitting on one of the chairs. As I was checking my mailbox, he walked over to me and asked if he could use my phone to call a friend that was late in picking him up.

I told him that my phone had just died and he gave me a look as though I was lying because he was black. Strangely enough, my phone had just died on the ride home, so I pulled it out and showed the blank screen. When I did this, he took the phone from my hand and put it into his pocket.

I said, “Uhh, yeah can I have that back please?” to which he replied “It’s dead, you gave it to me. Let’s go bury it together.”
This response perplexed me, so I insisted, “That’s my phone. I need that.”
At this, he stepped toward me, placed his hand on my cheek and said “I just want to have sex with you right now.”

Some background; I am a straight white male.

When he had stepped close to me I could smell the alcohol on his breath, so I took one big step backward and said “Uh no thanks, I just want my phone back.” He refused, but he was not running away. He simply stood there staring at me.

I kept demanding my phone back but he was repeating over and over again that I had given it to him. This was when I started to get angry. I started yelling in the lobby for someone to call the police, however no one responded. I started screaming at the guy but he just stood there.

Finally, someone started coming down the lobby staircase to walk their dog. Before I could tell the person to call the police, the weirdo says “This guy wants to have sex with me but I don’t want him to!!” The man walking his dog thought we were in some sort of lovers quarrel and walked out of the lobby. I couldn’t believe it.

Eventually, after I had been screaming at the guy for another 5 minutes, he said he would give me back my phone for $10. I told him he could go to hell, to which he pulled out my phone and told me he would break it. When he did that I attempted to grab it from him and he tried to make for the door. I blocked him and we started getting into a wrestling match in my lobby (I don’t really know why I did this as he was much bigger than I was). During this time I heard someone yell “I’ve called the cops!”

At one point during this wrestling match I lost my balance and he managed to slip out the door and make his way down the street. I took off down the street and managed to get in front of him. I tried to stall him for the cops so I stopped him and said “Hey man! We got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we just start over; maybe I can help you with some money.” He said he wanted $5 for my phone. I said I had no cash on me so as he went to crack my phone in half I slapped it out of his hands. It landed behind him and when he reached to pick it up I grabbed the sleeve of his other arm and ripped it clean off. This caused him to stumble and allowed me to make a dive for my phone. I picked it up, screaming “Haaaaaaaaa!” and ran back to my lobby.

He took off and cops never found him even though he only had one sleeve.

peggedbea says...

lets see..
so spring 2001 i must be 18...
my 2 best lady friends and i are leaving some function in downtown fort worth.. 2 am...
we get side swiped by this ass in a broken hyundai that promptly speeds off that
leaves us with a disabled vehicle on the northside (ooo thats the scary side where all the brown people live) of downtown at 2 am. police are called.
we sit on the curb to wait.

a hideous 1981 lincoln pulls up beside us, it was previously driving the wrong way down a one way street for quite some time.

road wolf steps out. unlaced combat boots, one sock, shredded shorty short cut off jeans, worn, greasy, smell molly hatchet shirt. coarse gray beard, dirty face, insane head of long gray hair. about 5'8" semi-girthy...

he is come to save the day. he cant leave 3 lovely young ladies alone on a dangerous street corner in the middle of the night. he will wait with us until the police arrive.

being the outgoing chatty one of the 3 who thinks everyone is great and should be welcomed warmly into my life without an ounce of foresight or thought. i procede to engage in fascinating conversation with road wolf, while my lady friends see exactly so clearly what will happen next. as they are blessed with foresight and haven taken an accurate account of my personal history.

i learn that road wolf lives in his car with 3 delightfully smelly stray dogs, 5 pots, 2 pans, 10 cans of beans, 4 changes of clothes, 2 canteens, 1 case of dog food, 1 can opener, 1 mug, 1 spoon, 1 fork, 3 blankets, and a quart of oil.

road wolf learns that i live in an old house by the university with some friends and work at a coffee shop near by.

he has apparently just been released from a mexican prison for killing a federali. he left behind his beautiful latin love. his heart is broken. but he is pissed the fuck off at some albanian coke dealers. they have done something terrible. they took off to san antonio and set up their headquarters there. FUCK THOSE ALBANIAN COKE DEALERS. he is waiting for some guns to arrive from his cuban friends, then he is taking off to san antonio to KILL THOSE FUCKING ALBANIANS.

instead of sounding paranoid and bizzarre to me, it sounds LIKE A GRAND ADVENTURE TO HAVE. road wolf wants to take me with him i say FUCK YEAH ROAD WOLF LETS KILL THOSE FUCKING ALBANIANS. i learn that he also hates the fuck out of castro and in his youth was hired by the mexican government to assisinate him. he failed. was humilatiated. and has vowed revenge. WHY THE FUCK NOT HOP ON A TRAIN TO SAN ANTONIO, SHOOT SOME FUCKING ALBANIAN COKE DEALERS IN THE FUCKING FACE THEN TAKE OFF TO CUBA AND ATTEMPT TO ASSISINATE CASTRO??!?!!? WHY THE FUCK NOT?!??! 18 year old bea thinks this an extremely amusing adorable conversation. and sooo excited to have made a fascinating new friend. with an irrestible combination of love and rage. perception and madness.

my friends settle up business with the cops, and drag me away from road wolf relunctantly. but not before he hugs me tight and kisses me passionately.

when we get home my friends have to inform me that road wolf is insane and our idea to run away together is fucking insane. and will never happen. he is a paranoid old bum and i am to forget that ever happened. he will not remember once his crack high wears off. ... ok.....

2 days later road wolf shows up at the coffee shop i work at with a trunk full of guns. apparently his shorts are even shorter this time and his shirt has been cut off at the waist. he informs the kids working the shop that he is here to see me "shes not working today" ..."ohh.. well i got all dressed up and combed my hair for her, were going to san antonio, ill just wait here" so the crazy crackhead bum spends several hours in the upscale yuppie coffee house offending people. and i get angry phone calls from my friends at the shop.

road wolf continues to show up at the coffee house either while im not working or have been forced to hide in the back room by friends who have more sense than i.

this goes on for about 2 weeks until road wolf shows up the shop i get a call at home (btw my home at this point is also where all the baby crusty train hopping punk kids hang out and sleep), so back to the phone call, work dude calls me "whos over there right now?" "ahren, josh, grayson,etc" "does ahren have his shank on him?" (ahren=boyfriendishlikebutnotreeeeaalllydude at the time) "sure..." " get them down here right the fuck and now have them take out road wolf once and for all"

jesus fuck, so me and the boys load into the car and drive to coffee shop upon arrival we see 2 police cars surrounding a naked road wolf.

he had apparently decided it was a grand idea to strip naked and smoke crack on the patio of the coffee shop.

road wolf was hauled off to jail and i never saw him again...

and noone had to get bum shanked in an epic hobo battle for my love.
xoxo
bea

Haldaug says...

During my hiatus year between high school and college, I went on a student trip to Gambia with my jazz class at the (uniquely Scandinavian concept of) folk college I was attending. We stayed mostly in this village by the river Mini Mini Yang Bolong out in the Gambian countryside.

The occasion for the trip was some kind of cultural exchange organized by a Gambian organization who ran a center for foreign students at this village. The center consisted of several plaster and straw huts where we lived, a large pavilion where we ate our meals and a court yard where we received our music and dance lessons, all contained within a high fence in the middle of the village. At the pavilion there was a plaque advertising for a boat trip on the river, and we agreed to try it out. We had surveyed the river earlier and had found a ruin of an old boat house and an abandoned rotten canoe carved out of a tree trunk and wondered what kind of boats would take us on the river trip.

It should be said at this point that the reggae life style is very prominent among the Gambian semi rich, as our caretakers and hosts at the camp exemplified with Ganja, dreads and the works. These were the very hosts who would take us on the boat trip in, you guessed it, hollowed out tree trunks of highly questionable integrity and seaworthiness. This became apparent when we started to embark the two canoes, 4-5 people in each. The canoes sat very deep in the water with only 5-10 centimetres of clearance from the waterline to the rim of the boat. A couple of my classmates chickened out, which on hindsight probably saved our lives; the river was quite fierce and had strong currents.

We started out downstream, in it self a bad idea with only one Ganja smoking Gambian at the stern in each boat wielding a short paddle. It was then we discovered that the boats had started to leak. On top of the water already sploshing over the rim. Our Gambian captains, all calm, started back upstream while we scooped the water out of boats with our hands as best we could. The boats made little headway at first, but when our intoxicated and skillful caretakers paddled our boats along the banks of the river, the going got easier and we eventually reached the village all wet on our shoes, backsides and brows.

More stories from Gambia upon request...

JAPR says...

I'm only slightly drunk right now (local time is 6:54 AM, and I've only had about 11 beers since midnight), but this has seriously been one of the most awesome threads of late. I say we all give massive props to Alien Concept for this. Go spend some time checking out her well-deserving queues and personal queues.

rottenseed says...

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.

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