This morning I stepped out of the shower and this bathroom was fine: white walls, white tiles, sink and counter with toothpaste crusted all over. Three out of the four light bulbs over the mirror were still good — 100 watt, clear bulb, blinding bright in the small white room. Like always I was late, so I skipped shaving. She liked it when I didn’t shave, anyway. I was thinking about doing mutton chops. She’d get a kick out of that. I passed the mirror and noticed I was grinning. I didn’t even know I was grinning.
I’m in the bathroom tonight before bed and there’s something wrong with the lights. All three are on again but they glow kind of brown and don’t really light up the rest of the room. I should get more bulbs from the kitchen. I should, but I’m busy. The date was a wash-out and she shut her apartment door on me. You’d think that would wipe off the stupid grin from this morning. But I came back in the bathroom and, in the mirror, my face was still doing it. If I touch my face it doesn’t feel like a grin, but there it is in the mirror.
In the brown light it’s hard to make out but — have you ever actually counted how many teeth show when you smile? I lean in close. One, two, three, four — I didn’t know my mouth was so wide — nine, ten, eleven — I can’t do mutton chops after all. The corners of my lips are out to my ears. It still doesn’t feel like a grin. But I keep counting, for curiosity.
Thirty-six — thirty-seven — thirty-eight…
Real life fear/horror/madness
Last edited by HuManBing on Tue Sep 29, 2009 6:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.
The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.
This decision saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.
At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, “Did you look through the keyhole?” The man told her that he had and she said, “Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red.”
The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.
This decision saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.
At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, “Did you look through the keyhole?” The man told her that he had and she said, “Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red.”
DAY OF ALL THE BLOOD
THIS IS THE STORY OF A DAY WHERE THERE WAS ALL THIS BLOOD. A MAN WAS WALKING AROUND AND BLOOD STARTED COMING OUT OF HIM EVERYWHERE. THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD THAT IT FILLED UP AN ELEVATOR. HE WENT TO THE STORE AND THERE WAS JUST BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE! PEOPLE WERE SLIPPING IN IT AND THEY WERE ALL GROSSED OUT. HE TRIED TO GO SWIMMING AND ALL OF THE SHARKS WENT NUTS AND BITTENED EVERYBODY. HE GOT CHASED BY ALL THE VAMPIRES EVER. ONE TIME THE BLOOD GOT A KID AND A DOG. AT THE END OF THE DAY EVERYONE DECIDED THEY WOULD SEND HIM TO SPACE SO THAT HE WOULD STOP GETTING BLOOD EVERY WHERE. THE SCARIEST PART IS THAT THE MAN WAS YOU!!! (OR HE WAS A LADY IF YOU ARE A LADY) AND YOU FORGOT THAT THIS HAPPENED.
THIS IS THE STORY OF A DAY WHERE THERE WAS ALL THIS BLOOD. A MAN WAS WALKING AROUND AND BLOOD STARTED COMING OUT OF HIM EVERYWHERE. THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD THAT IT FILLED UP AN ELEVATOR. HE WENT TO THE STORE AND THERE WAS JUST BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE! PEOPLE WERE SLIPPING IN IT AND THEY WERE ALL GROSSED OUT. HE TRIED TO GO SWIMMING AND ALL OF THE SHARKS WENT NUTS AND BITTENED EVERYBODY. HE GOT CHASED BY ALL THE VAMPIRES EVER. ONE TIME THE BLOOD GOT A KID AND A DOG. AT THE END OF THE DAY EVERYONE DECIDED THEY WOULD SEND HIM TO SPACE SO THAT HE WOULD STOP GETTING BLOOD EVERY WHERE. THE SCARIEST PART IS THAT THE MAN WAS YOU!!! (OR HE WAS A LADY IF YOU ARE A LADY) AND YOU FORGOT THAT THIS HAPPENED.
-
Joël of the FoS
- Moderator
- Posts: 6664
- Joined: Sun Nov 30, 2003 1:24 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: St-Damien, Québec
Errr... did we forget the grandmother rule, HMB? This is somewhat borderline in the mods opinion... Can you edit this story? Less said is often better in the victorian way.HuManBing wrote:Here is a story about love and romance. I include it to break up the sheer high-intensity fear horror and madness that is in this thread. Please enjoy:
STARBUCKS LOVE
So I met this girl who worked at Starbucks, and I worked up the courage to ask her on a date after a couple of conversations at the register. She was a month older than me but I didn’t really care, she was fun to be around. So we took a walk along the beach, and we kissed in the pale moonlight, a full moon, it was really romantic. (...)
My grandmother reads these boards.
Joël
"A full set of (game) rules is so massively complicated that the only time they were all bound together in a single volume, they underwent gravitational collapse and became a black hole" (Adams)
Post edited, for added relativity.
This following story is absolutely true. It happened to me between Oct. 2007 when my brother got married, and April 2008 when my mother found out about my plan.
My brother was getting married. I couldn't make it to the wedding so I wanted to get them a present they could both enjoy. After a fair bit of thinking, I decided on a bedroom swing. They could put it up in the bedroom and have fun with it together.
I called my brother up and he liked the idea. But he wasn't sure if his wife would mind. He went to go talk to her and she said "absolutely not! Pervert."
ROUND ONE: FAILURE
Looking to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, my brother then said "Just get the swing anyway, it's okay. We don't have to get her permission."
I said "No, we do need her permission. I have to get her measurements for the swing."
ROUND TWO: FAILURE
Later I told my mother, SmallMom, about this. She did not like the idea at all.
"This is inappropriate and awkward," she said. "But if you do go through with the idea, you should get one of those bedroom swings that has a frame to support it on the ground, rather than one of those that hangs off the ceiling, otherwise it could fall and hurt somebody."
I thought about this and said "..."
"Goodbye!" said SmallMom cheerfully, and hung up.
ROUND THREE: EPIC FAILURE
This following story is absolutely true. It happened to me between Oct. 2007 when my brother got married, and April 2008 when my mother found out about my plan.
My brother was getting married. I couldn't make it to the wedding so I wanted to get them a present they could both enjoy. After a fair bit of thinking, I decided on a bedroom swing. They could put it up in the bedroom and have fun with it together.
I called my brother up and he liked the idea. But he wasn't sure if his wife would mind. He went to go talk to her and she said "absolutely not! Pervert."
ROUND ONE: FAILURE
Looking to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, my brother then said "Just get the swing anyway, it's okay. We don't have to get her permission."
I said "No, we do need her permission. I have to get her measurements for the swing."
ROUND TWO: FAILURE
Later I told my mother, SmallMom, about this. She did not like the idea at all.
"This is inappropriate and awkward," she said. "But if you do go through with the idea, you should get one of those bedroom swings that has a frame to support it on the ground, rather than one of those that hangs off the ceiling, otherwise it could fall and hurt somebody."
I thought about this and said "..."
"Goodbye!" said SmallMom cheerfully, and hung up.
ROUND THREE: EPIC FAILURE
Last edited by HuManBing on Mon Apr 21, 2014 9:16 pm, edited 2 times in total.
A scary story from my friend Zum (pronounced "Dzum", rhymes with thumb), who grew up in Thailand and spent most of her undergrad in Krung Thep. (Bangkok) I first met her at Tsinghua University in Beijing, where we both studied Chinese in a class for foreign students.
Zum was just a freshman student at college. They had classes and then compulsory after-class sports, so she and her friends could only go to parties late at night. Thailand is still fairly conservative and so the girls didn't hang around with guys or anything beyond platonic hand-holding. At the parties they went to, the guys knew it was a night to brag about if they got a kiss - everybody was pretty sheltered and the only thing that parents really had to worry about was how their kids would get home late.
Most of the public transport stopped in the early hours, so the next best thing was taxi cabs. These were way more expensive, so you could only travel in groups and split the fare. The drivers were the opposite of the students - uneducated, coarse, often addicted to the betel nut.
Zum and her friends got in a cab and gave directions. That night, Zum was going straight back to her relative's house in the next suburb over, so the cabbie dropped her friends off one by one. He seemed distracted, drumming his wheel with his palm and tugging at his collar a bit. He cradled his forehead, sweaty from the midnight heat.
Zum watched the scenery flashing by, from the headlighted expanses in front to the anonymous shadows whipping away behind. She was tired and the road was dustier than she remembered. A sign came up ahead and she saw the next exit.
This was wrong. They were heading in the wrong direction.
She addressed the driver by an honorific, and called him Daosavanh - his name from the ID card in the cab. "We have taken the wrong road," she said.
He turned his head slowly back at her and stared at her. "Daosavanh's not here," he said at length. "He's off today." Ahead of them, the road signs flipped by at highway speeds, unheeded by the driver.
Zum was incensed. "The road!" she said.
The driver watched her a moment longer, then slowly turned his head back to the road. The car jerked as he put it back to the straight and true.
"We're supposed to go to Bangkapi," she said. "Why are we going towards Ban Khlong Suan?"
The man looked back at her again and blinked. There was something wrong with his eyes. Too bright, somehow. Something more potent than betel nut.
"I'm very sorry," he said slowly. He put his hands on his jaw, and with a vicious force that shocked Zum, gave his head a few brutal jerks upward, as if to yank it clean off his shoulders. "I picked the wrong one this morning. I can't change it until the sunrise. I hope you understand."
The landscape whipped past as the man continued to accelerate, and Zum's irritation vanished, replaced by a cold certainty of where she was. Stories in the papers of women, found by the roadsides or in pastures. Some so far gone that they had to look at teeth. A few so badly done that even dental records were useless. No clue about the perpetrator - just somebody who could somehow dump bodies without anybody noticing.
And all the while, the driver's eyes on her own, unheeding the manic highway ahead of him. His head bobbing like a loose, broken thing. Maybe in supplication or deference - who can tell? I hope you understand.
Zum's bookbag took the brunt of her fall, scattering pages to the wind as the cab raced off into the distance, passenger door flailing like a broken wing. She can point out the exact place where her skull fractured and show you the scars when they had to wire her ribs back together. And she must have hit a pebble because her cheek was cut open from here to here. And yes, she knows that most Beijingers take taxis around town, but she's got her own reasons to stick to the Beijing subway.
It's pretty new and cheap, but that's not the half of it.
Zum was just a freshman student at college. They had classes and then compulsory after-class sports, so she and her friends could only go to parties late at night. Thailand is still fairly conservative and so the girls didn't hang around with guys or anything beyond platonic hand-holding. At the parties they went to, the guys knew it was a night to brag about if they got a kiss - everybody was pretty sheltered and the only thing that parents really had to worry about was how their kids would get home late.
Most of the public transport stopped in the early hours, so the next best thing was taxi cabs. These were way more expensive, so you could only travel in groups and split the fare. The drivers were the opposite of the students - uneducated, coarse, often addicted to the betel nut.
Zum and her friends got in a cab and gave directions. That night, Zum was going straight back to her relative's house in the next suburb over, so the cabbie dropped her friends off one by one. He seemed distracted, drumming his wheel with his palm and tugging at his collar a bit. He cradled his forehead, sweaty from the midnight heat.
Zum watched the scenery flashing by, from the headlighted expanses in front to the anonymous shadows whipping away behind. She was tired and the road was dustier than she remembered. A sign came up ahead and she saw the next exit.
This was wrong. They were heading in the wrong direction.
She addressed the driver by an honorific, and called him Daosavanh - his name from the ID card in the cab. "We have taken the wrong road," she said.
He turned his head slowly back at her and stared at her. "Daosavanh's not here," he said at length. "He's off today." Ahead of them, the road signs flipped by at highway speeds, unheeded by the driver.
Zum was incensed. "The road!" she said.
The driver watched her a moment longer, then slowly turned his head back to the road. The car jerked as he put it back to the straight and true.
"We're supposed to go to Bangkapi," she said. "Why are we going towards Ban Khlong Suan?"
The man looked back at her again and blinked. There was something wrong with his eyes. Too bright, somehow. Something more potent than betel nut.
"I'm very sorry," he said slowly. He put his hands on his jaw, and with a vicious force that shocked Zum, gave his head a few brutal jerks upward, as if to yank it clean off his shoulders. "I picked the wrong one this morning. I can't change it until the sunrise. I hope you understand."
The landscape whipped past as the man continued to accelerate, and Zum's irritation vanished, replaced by a cold certainty of where she was. Stories in the papers of women, found by the roadsides or in pastures. Some so far gone that they had to look at teeth. A few so badly done that even dental records were useless. No clue about the perpetrator - just somebody who could somehow dump bodies without anybody noticing.
And all the while, the driver's eyes on her own, unheeding the manic highway ahead of him. His head bobbing like a loose, broken thing. Maybe in supplication or deference - who can tell? I hope you understand.
Zum's bookbag took the brunt of her fall, scattering pages to the wind as the cab raced off into the distance, passenger door flailing like a broken wing. She can point out the exact place where her skull fractured and show you the scars when they had to wire her ribs back together. And she must have hit a pebble because her cheek was cut open from here to here. And yes, she knows that most Beijingers take taxis around town, but she's got her own reasons to stick to the Beijing subway.
It's pretty new and cheap, but that's not the half of it.
Romance, the morning after
You weigh less than a feather. Less than a heartbeat. About the same pressure as a gentle breath. And your breathing matches mine, swell for swell, pause to pause. Through the medium of bared, shared skin, it feels faintly sacred - like we were carved from the same flesh.
Your hair is in my face, still damp from before. Your nose nestled in my neck. I know your eyes are closed - their lashes flit against my jaw, and a sudden sweetness fills my heart as I draw you so slightly closer, my arm protecting you.
You might be asleep. I hate to wake you. Especially like this - a helpmeet primeval, as we curl like the oceans and the shores under the firmament of sky. Earlier, our voices joined as one, but now all is silent, save for the beach-smooth swell and murmur of our breaths.
If only this could be forever.
To lie thus. Even to die thus. Perfectly matched. Eternally fulfilled.
But I catch my breath and nudge you. We have to get up and leave.
You make a noise of sleepy protestation, but the moment has passed.
I'm already standing, gathering cloth that distances us once more. Buttoning up.
Some things cannot be forever. Some moments are set by the universe, and then gone - like a bird flitting out into the stormfront.
I look at you, still sprawled in glorious disarray. My fondness gives way to a growing urgency.
Get up, you. Everything, in time, must come to an end. Sweetness without moderation is cloying. Put your clothes on and let's go.
Besides, Mom and Dad will kill us if they find us here.
You weigh less than a feather. Less than a heartbeat. About the same pressure as a gentle breath. And your breathing matches mine, swell for swell, pause to pause. Through the medium of bared, shared skin, it feels faintly sacred - like we were carved from the same flesh.
Your hair is in my face, still damp from before. Your nose nestled in my neck. I know your eyes are closed - their lashes flit against my jaw, and a sudden sweetness fills my heart as I draw you so slightly closer, my arm protecting you.
You might be asleep. I hate to wake you. Especially like this - a helpmeet primeval, as we curl like the oceans and the shores under the firmament of sky. Earlier, our voices joined as one, but now all is silent, save for the beach-smooth swell and murmur of our breaths.
If only this could be forever.
To lie thus. Even to die thus. Perfectly matched. Eternally fulfilled.
But I catch my breath and nudge you. We have to get up and leave.
You make a noise of sleepy protestation, but the moment has passed.
I'm already standing, gathering cloth that distances us once more. Buttoning up.
Some things cannot be forever. Some moments are set by the universe, and then gone - like a bird flitting out into the stormfront.
I look at you, still sprawled in glorious disarray. My fondness gives way to a growing urgency.
Get up, you. Everything, in time, must come to an end. Sweetness without moderation is cloying. Put your clothes on and let's go.
Besides, Mom and Dad will kill us if they find us here.
Quality Time
Damn train pulled up late, so no way to make the plane.
Bored novocaine operator's voice at ten p.m., next flight to Tulsa is tomorrow. Damn it. Late again.
I call Danny's mom. Let her know I'm gonna be late. She doesn't care - gives her another score against me. Didn't even have to do anything, this time, I mucked it up on my own.
You tell me there's a more venomous word in the English language than "custody". Oh no. I don't think so.
Cab dropped me off at some two-horse motel. A light was on in the drizzle. God's tears of laughter at my discomfiture. The weird thing was, there were moths flitting around it, even in the rain. Huh. Didn't know that could happen.
Paid up front for a night. Asked to see the map of their rooms, chose one on the second floor facing out.
Room smells. Not terrible, but a sickly thing, like the previous owners did something dishonest with the bed and then snuck away and the Mexican maid said screw it and left it. Not that I blame her.
Bags down on the floor. I look around.
Screw it. I'm fourteen hundred miles away from my son, who misses me. Fourteen hundred miles away from that swine of an ex-wife.
What the hell. It's a small town. Dying. There were pawn shops near the station. There's gotta be a bar nearby, and there will be women there who won't mind a musty motel room.
She had a good mouth on her. She chatted away like a mockingbird until I decided she would do and settled up the bill.
She wouldn't stop talking the whole cab ride back. Somewhere along the way she ran out of new material, it seemed. Repeats of the earlier conversations. Same questions. Same stories. Bastard husband kicked her out. Need a couch, or a bed would do.
I thought about the elevator, but hell - it was just the second floor. Plus... her nonstop yammering - closed space - not a good idea.
Maybe it was the beer, but I was slightly out of breath when we got to my door. Not her though. She didn't even break for oxygen.
We ended up in the dark. I don't like to let them see me in the light. Always the question of accountability. As soon as I lay on the bed, I smelled it. Something not right. Sickly sweet.
She didn't notice. Still prattling away about her weekend classes.
Shut up, I said. I have to think. This is the hardest part. Something different in the routine. Something not accounted for in the preparation matrix. Something random.
The smell maddened me. It was faintly familiar, like that time I recalled my mother's perfume across the gulf of three decades. But also... dangerous?
I couldn't think straight. The stupid whore was still chattering away. A sudden impulse carried me beyond courtesy or control.
SHUT UP YOU TRASH.
GOD DAMN IT I AM TRYING TO THINK HERE.
...
There, that seemed to work.
That was a point in the Good column. Whatever else happened, I couldn't deny that. I nursed the tumbler of gin on my chest as I sat in the threadbare couch. My headache was easing.
In fact, why stop there? Problem 2 was solved too: find smell source. Granted, it introduced other complications of a faintly urgent future sort, but enjoy your moment of success. Positive thinking, my shrink had said. Measure your successes for reinforcement.
I got up, and put a towel over her. Her skin was already cool to the touch.
I put another towel around her, and laid her gently on the floor.
I cricked up her knee and her elbow, like I'd seen them do in emergency situations. When a person is unable to breathe easily and needs to roll over, for example.
She slid easily under the bed, next to the other one. I figured she wouldn't start smelling until Tuesday at the earliest.
But it was time to get going. Half the night was gone, and there was a plane seat with my name on it in the morning, to take me to Tulsa. To my boy.
Danny, I'm on my way.
Damn train pulled up late, so no way to make the plane.
Bored novocaine operator's voice at ten p.m., next flight to Tulsa is tomorrow. Damn it. Late again.
I call Danny's mom. Let her know I'm gonna be late. She doesn't care - gives her another score against me. Didn't even have to do anything, this time, I mucked it up on my own.
You tell me there's a more venomous word in the English language than "custody". Oh no. I don't think so.
Cab dropped me off at some two-horse motel. A light was on in the drizzle. God's tears of laughter at my discomfiture. The weird thing was, there were moths flitting around it, even in the rain. Huh. Didn't know that could happen.
Paid up front for a night. Asked to see the map of their rooms, chose one on the second floor facing out.
Room smells. Not terrible, but a sickly thing, like the previous owners did something dishonest with the bed and then snuck away and the Mexican maid said screw it and left it. Not that I blame her.
Bags down on the floor. I look around.
Screw it. I'm fourteen hundred miles away from my son, who misses me. Fourteen hundred miles away from that swine of an ex-wife.
What the hell. It's a small town. Dying. There were pawn shops near the station. There's gotta be a bar nearby, and there will be women there who won't mind a musty motel room.
* ~ * ~ *
Sure there was. She told me a name, but who cares. I put a fifty on the bar and the drinks kept coming. This one had a routine, too. House in the suburbs. Bastard of a husband, a fight. Out with just the clothes on her back. Needs a place to stay, a couch will do. Or a bed, if I wanted.She had a good mouth on her. She chatted away like a mockingbird until I decided she would do and settled up the bill.
She wouldn't stop talking the whole cab ride back. Somewhere along the way she ran out of new material, it seemed. Repeats of the earlier conversations. Same questions. Same stories. Bastard husband kicked her out. Need a couch, or a bed would do.
I thought about the elevator, but hell - it was just the second floor. Plus... her nonstop yammering - closed space - not a good idea.
Maybe it was the beer, but I was slightly out of breath when we got to my door. Not her though. She didn't even break for oxygen.
We ended up in the dark. I don't like to let them see me in the light. Always the question of accountability. As soon as I lay on the bed, I smelled it. Something not right. Sickly sweet.
She didn't notice. Still prattling away about her weekend classes.
Shut up, I said. I have to think. This is the hardest part. Something different in the routine. Something not accounted for in the preparation matrix. Something random.
The smell maddened me. It was faintly familiar, like that time I recalled my mother's perfume across the gulf of three decades. But also... dangerous?
I couldn't think straight. The stupid whore was still chattering away. A sudden impulse carried me beyond courtesy or control.
SHUT UP YOU TRASH.
GOD DAMN IT I AM TRYING TO THINK HERE.
...
There, that seemed to work.
* ~ * ~ *
She's not looking at me. Probably mad. Don't blame her. Lying facing away from me, just like my ex-wife did. They're all the same. Don't let it get you down. You solved problem 1: remove noise source.That was a point in the Good column. Whatever else happened, I couldn't deny that. I nursed the tumbler of gin on my chest as I sat in the threadbare couch. My headache was easing.
In fact, why stop there? Problem 2 was solved too: find smell source. Granted, it introduced other complications of a faintly urgent future sort, but enjoy your moment of success. Positive thinking, my shrink had said. Measure your successes for reinforcement.
I got up, and put a towel over her. Her skin was already cool to the touch.
I put another towel around her, and laid her gently on the floor.
I cricked up her knee and her elbow, like I'd seen them do in emergency situations. When a person is unable to breathe easily and needs to roll over, for example.
She slid easily under the bed, next to the other one. I figured she wouldn't start smelling until Tuesday at the earliest.
But it was time to get going. Half the night was gone, and there was a plane seat with my name on it in the morning, to take me to Tulsa. To my boy.
Danny, I'm on my way.
-
Gonzoron of the FoS
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 7558
- Joined: Tue Dec 02, 2003 8:02 pm
- Gender: Male
- Location: New Jersey
- Contact:
Candy Death Match
Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels.
Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them breaks and splinters. That is the “loser,” and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round.
I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theater of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world.
Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment.
When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3×5 card reading, “Please use this M&M for breeding purposes.”
This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this “grant money.” I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion.
There can be only one.
Whenever I get a package of plain M&Ms, I make it my duty to continue the strength and robustness of the candy as a species. To this end, I hold M&M duels.
Taking two candies between my thumb and forefinger, I apply pressure, squeezing them together until one of them breaks and splinters. That is the “loser,” and I eat the inferior one immediately. The winner gets to go another round.
I have found that, in general, the brown and red M&Ms are tougher, and the newer blue ones are genetically inferior. I have hypothesized that the blue M&Ms as a race cannot survive long in the intense theater of competition that is the modern candy and snack-food world.
Occasionally I will get a mutation, a candy that is misshapen, or pointier, or flatter than the rest. Almost invariably this proves to be a weakness, but on very rare occasions it gives the candy extra strength. In this way, the species continues to adapt to its environment.
When I reach the end of the pack, I am left with one M&M, the strongest of the herd. Since it would make no sense to eat this one as well, I pack it neatly in an envelope and send it to M&M Mars, A Division of Mars, Inc., Hackettstown, NJ 17840-1503 U.S.A., along with a 3×5 card reading, “Please use this M&M for breeding purposes.”
This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this “grant money.” I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion.
There can be only one.
Wristbands
When you are admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other different colored wristbands which symbolizes other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people.
There was one surgeon who worked on night shift in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the woman while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor. Surprised the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in.
The doctor said “that was the woman i just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn’t you see the red wristband she was wearing?”
The woman smiled and raised her arm “something like this?”
When you are admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other different colored wristbands which symbolizes other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people.
There was one surgeon who worked on night shift in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the woman while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor. Surprised the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in.
The doctor said “that was the woman i just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn’t you see the red wristband she was wearing?”
The woman smiled and raised her arm “something like this?”
Bulgarian Yule
In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman’s village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January the first everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight’s celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.
One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.
Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.
The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.
In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman’s village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January the first everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight’s celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.
One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.
Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.
The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.
The "talk"
A mother worries that her teenage daughter is having sex and might get pregnant, so she consults several parenting websites for advice.
Later that evening, as her daughter prepares for a date, the mother sits down to talk with her. “I know you are adult enough to make the right decision about your body. But I want you to please try to abstain from sex until you’re married. If you must have sex, then please use protection.”
Feeling proud of herself for being so pro-active, the mother hands her daughter a box of condoms.
The daughter laughs and hugs her mother. “Oh Mom! You don’t have to worry about that! I’m dating a girl!”
A mother worries that her teenage daughter is having sex and might get pregnant, so she consults several parenting websites for advice.
Later that evening, as her daughter prepares for a date, the mother sits down to talk with her. “I know you are adult enough to make the right decision about your body. But I want you to please try to abstain from sex until you’re married. If you must have sex, then please use protection.”
Feeling proud of herself for being so pro-active, the mother hands her daughter a box of condoms.
The daughter laughs and hugs her mother. “Oh Mom! You don’t have to worry about that! I’m dating a girl!”
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Zettaijin
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 667
- Joined: Fri Apr 11, 2008 2:30 am
- Gender: Male
- Location: Himeji, Japan
"Only an M&M can defeat an M&M"HuManBing wrote:Candy Death Match
This week they wrote back to thank me, and sent me a coupon for a free 1/2 pound bag of plain M&Ms. I consider this “grant money.” I have set aside the weekend for a grand tournament. From a field of hundreds, we will discover the True Champion.
There can be only one.
The Pillow Atrocity
My brother and I were pillowfighting, as kids. After dishing out a hefty beating, I forced my brother to call a truce.
While I was recollecting my pillows, my brother snuck on me and whapped me really hard over the head!
I was enraged.
"YOU CHEEKY LITTLE ARSE-POT!!!" I roared. I grabbed the pillow away from him and hit him back a few times.
Then, I had an idea. My intestines were rumbling. Gas was imminent. Quick as lightning, I clamped the pillow to my butt and sat down. A gaseous muscular contraction later, and the revenge was complete.
The pillow could almost - but not quite - disguise the sound of the biological atrocity taking place here.
"Ha ha!!" I shouted, putting the odoriferous pillow down on the bed. "Smelly pillow for you!! Enjoy sleeping with stinky poop dreams!!"
My brother looked at the pillow.
My brother looked at me.
Then - to my everlasting horror - he reached down to the floor behind the bed...
...
...and picked up his pillow.
...
I looked at my tainted pillow in an eloquent species of dismay.
My brother and I were pillowfighting, as kids. After dishing out a hefty beating, I forced my brother to call a truce.
While I was recollecting my pillows, my brother snuck on me and whapped me really hard over the head!
I was enraged.
"YOU CHEEKY LITTLE ARSE-POT!!!" I roared. I grabbed the pillow away from him and hit him back a few times.
Then, I had an idea. My intestines were rumbling. Gas was imminent. Quick as lightning, I clamped the pillow to my butt and sat down. A gaseous muscular contraction later, and the revenge was complete.
The pillow could almost - but not quite - disguise the sound of the biological atrocity taking place here.
"Ha ha!!" I shouted, putting the odoriferous pillow down on the bed. "Smelly pillow for you!! Enjoy sleeping with stinky poop dreams!!"
My brother looked at the pillow.
My brother looked at me.
Then - to my everlasting horror - he reached down to the floor behind the bed...
...
...and picked up his pillow.
...
I looked at my tainted pillow in an eloquent species of dismay.
Last edited by HuManBing on Mon Apr 21, 2014 9:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.