Top THAT Stories That You Tell (Possibly TMI)

In My Humble Opinion
1

Nearly everyone has a story that they retell when they want to get in a little one upmanship in some area of life. Mine is The Composer’s Big Gay Wedding.

Back in 1990 I was friends with The Composer who had discovered “furries” and was busily at work composing a furry opera (which never got performed because he went nuts and pissed off the people who held the rights, but that’s another story), when he met “Frau Paulina.” Frau Paulina was this whiny little guy who thought he was an artist, but really didn’t have the talent for it. He and The Composer had met via a message board, and quickly hit things off. So much so, that Frau Paulina quit school within months of first talking to The Composer and moved 800 miles to be with The Composer. (I should point out that The Composer looked like Phil Collins with long, greasy, unwashed hair.)

As part of their “embracement” of the furry lifestyle, The Composer got a pet fox. This fox was not neutered or descented since that was “unnatural” in the eyes of The Composer. The fox made a home for itself by chewing a hole into the side of the couch and building a nest inside of there (mind you, The Composer is renting this place, and the furniture belonged to the landlord). You’d be sitting there on the couch (choking on the stench from where the fox had sprayed to mark it’s territory, the house reeked so bad that you could stand at the street and smell it), when suddenly the fox would poke it’s head up from inside the couch with a “Hey! What are you doing on top of my house?” expression on it’s face. It would then proceed to leap about, cat-like, apparently terrified that there were humans around.

So for their wedding, Frau Paulina and The Composer invited all their friends from the furry community. One of the guy’s who showed up was a “bag man” of sorts. He carried around a damp wash cloth in a plastic baggy and periodically would pull it out of the bag, wipe himself down with it and then put it back in his bag. Usually he’d do this in the middle of a conversation with you.

Another guy was walking around with a loaded .45 strapped to his hip, dressed in camo and carrying a stuffed otter toy that he’d wrapped in electrical tape and had “enhanced” for his pleasure. He sat down next to my friend John and calmly began discussing the benefits of beastiality. John, listened to this for a while, and then suggested that the guy start screwing weiner dogs since, as John put it, “They plump when you fuck them.” (John, BTW, has no interest in beastiality whatsoever, and merely said that to mess with the guy’s head.)

When the wedding started, everyone filed into the living room of the house, and Kim, the opera singer approached the altar that had been erected, and softly rang the bell that was there. At this point, The Composer and Frau Paulina enter, dressed as geishas. They go up to the altar, light a candle, then light incense sticks, which are then passed out amongst the assembled group.

Once everyone has a stick of incense, Kim rings the bell again, to signal the next portion of the ceremony. The Composer turns to Frau Paulina, take’s Paulina’s right hand, raises it, and then grabs a knife, preparing to cut Paulina’s palm. The Composer hadn’t bothered to check the knife before the ceremony and when he slashed Paulina’s palm discovered that the blade was quite dull. He then proceeds to saw on Paulina’s hand, much to Paulina’s dismay. Eventually, The Composer manages to get a cut deep enough that it’s bleeding. Paulina was in a great deal of discomfort by this time, and since no one had bothered to fetch a better knife, when it came time for Paulina to cut The Composer’s hand, Paulina took the knife and stabbed The Composer’s palm with it.

The Composer let out a yelp, and Paulina worked the tip of the knife back and forth until he got it deep enough for blood to well out. The Composer was gasping and flinching while all of this was going on. Kim then bound The Composer’s and Paulina’s hands together while pronouncing them married. She then rang the bell a third time, at which point, The Composer and Frau Paulina then retreated to their upstairs bedroom where, according to Kim, “The third part of the ceremony takes place upstairs and all are welcome to join.” No one did.

So, what’s your “top that” story?

2

That line is probably going to work its way into a conversation at work Monday.

Anyway, I don’t have nearly as interesting a story; but I usually whip this one out when injury stories come up.

A girl I went to high school with worked at McDonald’s for a while. One day she was standing next to the fryer, slipped in some grease, and deep-fried her arm. She had blisters the size of quail eggs.

3

In reply to the OP: Possibly the weirdest story I’ve ever heard.
And in reply to #2: Ouch.

4

I usually tell the story about my high school prank senior year. Which was even funnier when I was back at college for a reunion concert with my a cappella group, and told the story at a post-show party. A girl about seven years younger than I am said, “Wait, you’re Jurph? My roommate is going to be so jealous. She went to your high school and they’re still telling this one.”

5

I was working in a warehouse for a chain of pet stores, and they would use me as a delivery driver when necessary. They got an order, and this guy (we’ll call him "Deal) loaded up the van. There was a spare in the back of the van, but it wasn’t anchored to the van anywhere. Deal props the spare against the wall of the van and packs around it. Of course, I’m oblivious to this and make my deliveries, removing boxes at every stop. At one store, the manager tells me they have a return: a red-winged blackbird that is bleeding from the beak. I put the cardboard box with the bird in the back of the van and pull away from the curb. Just then I hear the spare roll to the back of the van right over the center of the bird box. I thought I had just bought a dead bird. Luckily, they reasoned it was going to die anyway and didn’t dock my pay.

6

I went to a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band Concert a couple years ago. After the intermission, my mom and I sat back down in our seats and I was turned around looking at all the concert goers to see if I was the youngest person there (I wasn’t). Suddenly, a farmiliar-looking torso crossed my line of vision. It was the substitute teacher from the middle school that I’d gone to. I recognized him by his man-boobs.

Any time this sub is mentioned in a conversation at school, I say, “Oh, man, I was at a concert once…” and everyone else just goes, “Shut up, we’ve heard it.”

It’s like Brad’s Shania Twain story from “I Heart Huckabees.”

7

I don’t know if this story will “top” anyone’s, but it’s a story that I tell to some people sometimes.

Many years ago, I met this girl at a club. It was kind of a pop-teen club, but most nights they’d slip in some stuff we’d like (maybe some Ministry or KMFDM or something like that). This girl was into that stuff, too, so we started talking and got along well. We ended up hanging out a fair bit and she did her best to “seduce” me. Didn’t get very far because I was an extremely inexperienced one at the time, but we did some messing around and all that.

One time I was going to a movie with her and a friend of mine and she invites this other guy along. About halfway through the night, I figure out that he’s actually her boyfriend. Why did she invite her boyfriend to meet the guy she’s messing around with behind his back?

I still have no idea. But he and I hit it off great and later became great friends. She turned out to be a bit of a psycho, so we both stopped calling her. Eventually, he and I became college roommates.

8

Whenever someone else name-drops, I throw in the killer - literally. Serial killer John Wayne Gacy was at my house for dinner eleven days before he was arrested for the murder of 37 young men.
(He went to high school with my mom, she hadn’t seen him for years, they ran into one another at a bar where she was working, she invited him to a party she was having that weekend, he showed up and ate lasagna and showed me a photo of him shaking hands with Roslyn Carter.)

9

Ouch. Makes the time I was seriously scalded at work look tame - I was dumping the grease into the pickup bin and the gate around the garbage area blew shut on me. Of course, my boss then repeatedly said it was my fault (do I look like Storm or something?), which adds to the WTF? level of my story.

My ‘top this’ stupid injury story is the one time when I broke my arm playing win Lose Or Draw.

10

Here’s mine.

11

Excellent tale, Tuckerfan!

Well, I don’t know if this’ll top anything, but it’s a story I remember.

Wayback in 1981 I had been working for an oil company for almost a year after graduating from college. I’d been fairly conservative around my co-workers, until my first Christmas party, when a secretary from my department, Jenny, had wound up without a ride. So, I took her home. To my home.

Nothing more than a little heavy breathing transpired, but soon thereafter we’d planned to attend a friend’s New Year’s Eve party in Brenham (a town about an hour away from Houston).

Come lunchtime on New year’s Eve day, Jenny’s boss decides to take her to lunch for her birthday. They arrived back at ~3:00, rather besotted, just in time for management to tell us we’re cut loose. Don, her boss, is a senior geologist who’s taken a liking to me (a good thing when you’re a nascent corporado), and he invites me to come along while they continue their imbibing of holiday spirits.

Jenny and I figure we’ll schmooze through Happy Hour with him and then head on to the party.

After catching a bit of a buzz at a T.G.I.Friday’s, he (remember - somewhat of an authority figure to both of us) decides we should go to another swingin’ bar he’s heard about. I take Jenny, and we catch a smooch or two on the way over.

And I call my friends in Brenham to assure them we’ll be there. This turns into a running subplot of the evening, as I called them several more times.

The place is dead. We continue to drink, all on Don’s nickel, and finally he says to me, “Ringo, go pick up that woman over there for me!”

!?!

There’s a woman a bit older than I was at the time (28) sitting at a table by herself. Hell, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I go over and sit down beside her and start talking. Somehow, I persuade her to join us. Then we learn that she’s waiting to meet her husband. Now, this is supposedly a swingers’ bar, on New Year’s Eve, and she’s waiting to meet her husband. Don decides it’s time to fold camp.

And he’ll take Jenny home, thank you very much.

Jenny tells me to come pick her up at her apartment at midnight.

Grrr!

So I head home to cool my jets for about an hour. On the way I encounter a road barricade whose flashing light has died. I didn’t even see it until I hit it at cruising speed. The car completely clears the area before the debris comes down. A lesson learned.

Come midnight, I knock on Jenny’s apartment door, and have my first meeting with Lil, her whacko mom. Having explained that Jenny had said to pick her up at midnight, her mom invites me in to wait, and even makes me a cup of coffee.

The phone rings.

It’s Jenny, and she wants to speak to me.

She’s been taken to Don’s. “Please come get me, I don’t trust his intentions!”

Don at that time was likely cursing the fact that he’d had me over recently, so I knew where he lived.

He grabs the phone, “Don’t you dare come over here, you son of a bitch! If I even see you around here, forget it! You’re washed up!”

“And you can’t get in the place, anyway!”

Hmmm…,
So, I decide to head on over there.

When I get there, I’m confronted by one of those black and white striped barricades that blocks the driveway. That’s what Don meant when he said I couldn’t get into the place.

Well, hell, I’m now experienced with busting barricades, so a bit of gas and I’m in.

I encounter Don on the third story balcony and, having apparently watched my rather spectacular entry to the compound, he’s in no mood to fight.

I find Jenny on the bed in the Master Bedroom, skirtless and surrounded by a fortress of pillows. I scoop her up and exit the scene, pausing to grab Don by the collar, shove him up against the wall, and say, “Motherf*****r, we’ll be friends again yet!”

As we exited the now guard-gate-less compound, I realized I had a flat tire. Just as I pulled over to the curb, a Houston cop pulled up and told me to park it for the night. So, we snoozed just outside of Don’s condo complex.

I woke up with the dawn, and changed the tire. We went to my house, where Don called me at ~ 9:00 AM. To apologize.
The crazy woman, Jenny, continued to enliven my existence for another 18 months or so. Don remained one of my best friends until his untimely death a few years ago.

12

Excellent tale, Tuckerfan!

Well, I don’t know if this’ll top anything, but it’s a story I remember.

Wayback in 1981 I had been working for an oil company for almost a year after graduating from college. I’d been fairly conservative around my co-workers, until my first Christmas party, when a secretary from my department, Jenny, had wound up without a ride. So, I took her home. To my home.

Nothing more than a little heavy breathing transpired, but soon thereafter we’d planned to attend a friend’s New Year’s Eve party in Brenham (a town about an hour away from Houston).

Come lunchtime on New year’s Eve day, Jenny’s boss decides to take her to lunch for her birthday. They arrived back at ~3:00, rather besotted, just in time for management to tell us we’re cut loose. Don, her boss, is a senior geologist who’s taken a liking to me (a good thing when you’re a nascent corporado), and he invites me to come along while they continue their imbibing of holiday spirits.

Jenny and I figure we’ll schmooze through Happy Hour with him and then head on to the party.

After catching a bit of a buzz at a T.G.I.Friday’s, he (remember - somewhat of an authority figure to both of us) decides we should go to another swingin’ bar he’s heard about. I take Jenny, and we catch a smooch or two on the way over.

And I call my friends in Brenham to assure them we’ll be there. This turns into a running subplot of the evening, as I called them several more times.

The place is dead. We continue to drink, all on Don’s nickel, and finally he says to me, “Ringo, go pick up that woman over there for me!”

!?!

There’s a woman a bit older than I was at the time (28) sitting at a table by herself. Hell, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I go over and sit down beside her and start talking. Somehow, I persuade her to join us. Then we learn that she’s waiting to meet her husband. Now, this is supposedly a swingers’ bar, on New Year’s Eve, and she’s waiting to meet her husband. Don decides it’s time to fold camp.

And he’ll take Jenny home, thank you very much.

Jenny tells me to come pick her up at her apartment at midnight.

Grrr!

So I head home to cool my jets for about an hour. On the way I encounter a road barricade whose flashing light has died. I didn’t even see it until I hit it at cruising speed. The car completely clears the area before the debris comes down. A lesson learned.

Come midnight, I knock on Jenny’s apartment door, and have my first meeting with Lil, her whacko mom. Having explained that Jenny had said to pick her up at midnight, her mom invites me in to wait, and even makes me a cup of coffee.

The phone rings.

It’s Jenny, and she wants to speak to me.

She’s been taken to Don’s. “Please come get me, I don’t trust his intentions!”

Don at that time was likely cursing the fact that he’d had me over recently, so I knew where he lived.

He grabs the phone, “Don’t you dare come over here, you son of a bitch! If I even see you around here, forget it! You’re washed up!”

“And you can’t get in the place, anyway!”

Hmmm…,
So, I decide to head on over there.

When I get there, I’m confronted by one of those black and white striped barricades that blocks the driveway. That’s what Don meant when he said I couldn’t get into the place.

Well, hell, I’m now experienced with busting barricades, so a bit of gas and I’m in.

I encounter Don on the third story balcony and, having apparently watched my rather spectacular entry to the compound, he’s in no mood to fight.

I find Jenny on the bed in the Master Bedroom, skirtless and surrounded by a fortress of pillows. I scoop her up and exit the scene, pausing to grab Don by the collar, shove him up against the wall, and say, “Motherf*****r, we’ll be friends again yet!”

As we exited the now guard-gate-less compound, I realized I had a flat tire. Just as I pulled over to the curb, a Houston cop pulled up and told me to park it for the night. So, we snoozed just outside of Don’s condo complex.

I woke up with the dawn, and changed the tire. We went to my house, where Don called me at ~ 9:00 AM. To apologize.
The crazy woman, Jenny, continued to enliven my existence for another 18 months or so. Don remained one of my best friends until his untimely death a few years ago.

13

A large amount of my Friday and Saturday nights between the ages of 16 and 18 were spent at my friend’s “free house”. This was a 4 bedroom terrace house that her mother had bought with the intention of renovating and selling on. From our point of view, being down the road from our school, across the road from a pub, fully equipped, yet without parental presence, it was teenage debauchery central.

In the course of those 2 years, we broke every bed in the house, and her mother had to re-paint the hallway twice because of red wine, cigarette burns and vomit stains. I can absolutely guarantee you that whatever you did at teenage house parties, or college house parties for that matter, we did worse in that house.

Drugs, loud music, fist fights, 3 day alcoholic benders, nervous breakdowns, lesbian orgies, threeways, bondage, you name it, it was done. We got away with it too…which says more about the teenage liver’s abilities to deal with large amounts of toxins, than it does about anything else.

14

I’ve got the third-hand story of a father of a friend of my Dad’s who shot a vampire. Dracula himself, no less. With live ammunition. That count for anything?

15

Oh my! Thank you Tuckerfan! I have tears running down my face!

16

I did.
Daniel

17

I went to library school at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. It’s the largest public university library in the world and currently has over 20 million volumes. I worked at the main reference desk and encountered all sorts of people with all sorts of questions.

One evening, I got a call from a woman who was looking for information on how to get her late husband’s death certificate. He’d died in a small city South Africa in the 40s. She’d been denied benefits because she had no proof he was dead. (I’m not sure why she was trying to rectify this in 1997, but whatever.) She thought that if she could contact the hospital there, she might be able to get the death certificate. Problem was, she didn’t remember the name of the hospital, and that’s why she was calling us.

The first rule of reference is to always assume you can find something helpful no matter how bizarre or impossible the question is…so, I took her name & number and said I’d contact her later that evening. After a little searching, I found UIUC actually had some bound newspapers from that city from the 40’s and I went to the stacks to retrieve. That was pretty amazing in itself. It got better, though. As I was checking these out I struck up a conversation with the circulation assisstant and mentioned what I was looking for. This woman was from the same small city in South Africa. She knew the name of the hospital.

The widow was quite pleased.

18

I was involved in a long term relationship with an individual who went by the name High Priestess on the boards. Priestess was a biological male who regarded herself as gender-queer. When I was introduced to her, she considered herself a m2f transsexual. We fell in love and hit it off and by the time we started dating, she considered herself more a very feminine male, so whenever I refer to her in the context of our relationship, I always say ‘he’ and ‘boyfriend.’ We broke up, not because of that, but for a variety of reasons and remained friends.

Fast-forward to now, she had a girlfriend who is also gender-queer. I am friends with her newest girlfriend, who I think is really hot. Unfortunately, they moved really fast in their relationship (which is what went wrong with ours) and moved in together before they really knew each other. Priestess wants to move apart from her girlfriend in order to improve their relationship, but she has to stay put until her lease runs out.

If things don’t improve by the time the lease runs out, then she will be moving in with me. So I’ll be living with my ex-boyfriend who is now my girl friend. :smiley:

19

This is my favorite foot-in-mouth it-will-be-funny-later story.

A few years ago, I had a girlfriend who had been molested by her uncle when she was younger. One evening, she was having really bad flashbacks to the molestation, and was in rather bad shape, emotionally, so I was doing my best to cheer her up. We had recently seen South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut, so I started talking about how I had been promised Punch 'n Pie, and that got a laugh out of her. So, I quickly racked my brain for more quotes, and the next thing out of my mouth was…

“No one fucks uncles quite like you”.

20

Details, man! Details! (Not explicit details, mind you. Just give us an idea.)