Seconded. Were there fursuits involved? Stuffed animals? Real animals? :dubious:
MaxTheVool: :eek: How did she react to that?!
Mine is the bad mother in law.
During my first marriage, towards the end of it but before I knew it was towards the end, my husband went on a vacation with his parents. It was a his family thing and I didn’t go - a long weekend sort of thing…
They took his girlfriend with them.
Kinda tame compared to the above, but…
My wife (before we were married) was living with a boyfriend (Bob) who met a guy (Fred) at a gaming convention. Fred had been kicked out by his mom and was living out on a hillside in Albany. Bob said that Fred could live in the garage. Over the next couple years, Bob moved out and I moved in. Fred moved from the garage to the guest room.
Then the annual United Way pledge drive came along at work. My wife didn’t want to have anything to do with it, but attendance was required. The United Way rep noticed my wife wasn’t into it, and asked her what she, personally, had done to help out the homeless.
“Well, I took one into my home and gave him a place to stay until he could get back on his feet. By the time he moved out, he had a job, a car, a truck, three motorcycles, a wife and two daughters.”
UW Rep: :eek:
This is one of the stories I tell when I’m trying to explain my dad to people. They never quite get how strange he is, but this gives them a teeny bit of insight.
My dad is known for his bad driving. He only has one eye as a result of a chemical accident when he was a teenager, and he wears dark glasses with a patch over the bad eye.
Anyway, he also likes to cruise around in his Jaguar, and he’s rather oblivious to what’s going on around him. One day he was out running an errand when it began to rain. Instead of stopping to close the sunroof, dad looks up at it while driving and as he’s getting it closed, he looks in front of him and there’s a gaggle of Canadian geese right in his path and they were too close for him to stop. He ended up kind of driving through them, leaving a trail of feathers and blood in his wake.
He was pretty freaked out when suddenly his cell phone rang. It was his old friend Dirty Dave. Dave said, “Al, I’ve been listening to the police scanner and someone just reported that a psycho in a red Jaguar just ran over a bunch of geese. You better get your ass home.” It really was an accident, and my dad didn’t know what good it would do to stick around, so he took the advice.
So dad goes home and a few minutes later the cops are at the door. He pretended not to realize what he had done, and apologized. It ended up that FIVE of the geese died. Dad felt really bad, as it was an accident, but it was still kind of funny in a sick way. His favorite thing to say, “Geese-0, Jaguar-5.” :eek:
I’m not The Composer made famous by Tuckerfan’s splendid tale of The Composer’s Big Gay Wedding, but I do have a humorous short story to share:
A group of friends (including me) had planned a long weekend camping trip to the mountains. After choosing vehicles and fighting over who was riding shot gun, we were on our way.
But not before stopping at KFC to engorge on yummy grease.
Stuffed to the brim with the aforementioned grease, we left again for the wilderness. All of us except for Chip and Dale (names obviously changed to protect the stupid).
Chip needed some gas, so he pulled off the highway to fill up. Meanwhile, Chip’s bowels began to reject the earlier ingested grease constituting a full fledged emergency visit to the bathroom from hell.
But that has nothing to do with the story.
After some time, a much relieved Chip returned to the vehicle and he and Dale were on the road again.
*** Several hours pass ***
The rest of us had arrived at our destination and were setting up camp. We had neither seen nor heard from Chip or Dale since leaving KFC. Even though we had already tried several times unsuccessfully to reach Chip on his cell, I gave it one more try.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell are you?”
“We’re coming up on Gray now. I thought you said it only took 2 hours.”
“Gray? Are you sure?”
“We just passed the city limit sign.”
“How are you anywhere near Gray?”
“I told you we just came into Gray.”
“Chip, Gray is near Macon. Are there mountains in Macon? Did you take 441 South?”
“I don’t know. We’re just driving on 441.”
::crickets::
“Are we going the wrong way?”
::crickets::
“Can you hear me?”
“Chip, you’re an idiot. Turn the fuck around and take 441 NORTH until you get to Gatlinburg.”
After several more hours, Chip and Dale (poor Dale, he was asleep during most of the trip) finally arrived at camp humiliated.
Nevertheless, we had a great camping experience.
Dale drove home, by the way. He had learned to never ride anywhere with Chip again.
In the dead of winter, I woke up with a sharp pain in my bladder. It was a #1 emergency. I skipped putting on my robe and instead just hurried downstairs as fast as I could wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. As I relieved myself, I started feeling as if I was going to be sick. I remember thinking to myself “okay, just finish peeing, then flush, then vomit. Just hold it in. Just don’t puke yet.”
The next thing I remember is waking up in my bathtub wrapped up in a shower curtain. It took me a few seconds to realize that I had passed out while peeing and had fainted backwards into the bathtub. I got out and walked slowly upstairs to my girlfriend who was still in bed. I asked how long I had been gone, and she told me 8 or 9 minutes. “I passed out in the bathroom”, I told her. She didn’t believe me until she went downstairs to see the damage I had done, which not only included the broken shower rod, but I had also urinated on the floor and walls and towels, presumably while falling backwards into the tub. She went back upstairs and forced me to take a shower, noting that my boxers and back were wet with urine. I told her that I was sure I was just wet because I had fallen into the tub, where some water was still sitting from our showers. Hey, it made sense at the time, half asleep with a huge lump on my head.
She made me take a shower while she cleaned up my piss from the bathroom. Anytime someone tries to embarrass me now, I whip this story out to prove its futility. A guy that openly shares times when he’s pissed himself won’t get embarrassed by much.
Tuckerfan , thanks. I just had to clean off my monitor after reading that!
Many moons ago, I was a deputy sheriff. I started out in communications and worked my way onto patrol. For those familiar with the Austin, Tx area, my district was everything south of the river and east of I-35, which included Del Valle and Bergstrom AFB.
Back then, there was an old-fashioned bridge on one of the back roads where it crossed a small creek, down off of Burleson Rd. where it ran in back of BAFB. It may still be there for all I know; this was 30 some-odd years ago. Anyway, every once in a while, someone would hang a fully dressed clothing store dummy on that bridge. We always thought it was the APs when they got bored patrolling the base, but could never prove it. Everybody in the SO knew about it, except for me: The Rookie.
So I get the call about 0200 one morning, possible suicide by hanging. I light it up and haul ass around those windy little back roads and somehow finally make to the bridge without wrecking the unit. I bail out and start running toward the body, and you gotta understand, it looked real as hell from a distance. I’m yelling on the handie-talkie:
Me: (pant, pant) “205. SEND ME AN AMBULANCE AND A SUPERVISOR, 10-18!!” (10-18=quickly)
Dispatch: “10-4”
I get up to the dummy and stop and stare at it for a moment while my brain processes a WTF moment. I then get on the radio again:
Me: “205. Cancel the ambulance, cancel the supervisor. It’s a dummy out here on the bridge.”
My lieutenant immediately responds: “Unit 11 to unit 205. How many dummies out on that bridge?”
I then realized that I Had Been Had, bigtime. I found out later that the entire office staff was back in the radio room listening to the adventures of The Rookie and laughing their asses ragged over it. Ah, the good old days… 
I have a lot of car accident stories. There are two especially good ones: In 1993 I graduated college and I drove a 1986 Dodge Daytona. Here is what happened: The day after graduation, I lent the car to my then boyfriend. I had all my wordly goods in the car, as I was planning on moving it to my new apartment. Dave was helping me move it. He used the car to come pick me up after work. I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar (I was!) at the Holiday Inn. End of night, Dave is out in the parking lot waiting. I got in, and as we were still sitting there in the parking lot, we both noticed that the grill was smoking, and, Hey! Lookit! Flames are coming out of there! So I run in to the lobby of the hotel, with Dave running right behind me. As I entered the lobby, the manager was on the phone with an emergency (but my car is on fire!) and motioned for me to wait. Well, as it turns out, the emergency that the manager was on the phone with was reported by the hotel security guard (note: he was a big guy. i will say he was somewhere around 350+lbs.) who saw Dave running after me in the parking lot. He reports whatever the security guy lingo is for man chasing a woman. He somehow neglected to see the car on fire. He also neglected to see the volleyball net that was set up (it was dark) and as he was running towards us, he face plants himself in the net and boinged right off of it and onto the ground. Officer down! He couldn’t get up, so he’s radio-ing this in to the manager. During all this, my poor car burned merrily away. The fire department came, which consisted of a bunch of 18-20 year old boys who played smashie smashie on all my windows. I know, to prevent explosion, probably. It didn’t matter as the whole car was nothing but wire and metal by then. Not much was salvageable as far as all my stuff, either. Bye bye skis, guitar, books, diaries, pictures, etc… Dave and I had to get a ride home from the Holiday Inn shuttle van. Whee!
Carless again, I found my next victim. I purchased the 1986 Nissan Pulsar. It was so little. Since we were finished with college, Dave and I decided to go cross country together. We took route 80 West, going to California, and I was driving. We were only on the second day out, still in Pennsylvania maybe 5 miles short of Ohio, when the driver’s side tires got stuck in a rut on the road. Uneven pavement type of thing. I was going about 65mph, and I tried to get the car out of the rut, and in so doing it swerved into the right lane and into the path of an approaching Winnebago. I jerked the wheel back to the left, but that was too much for that little car. We didn’t just roll; we actually flipped over THREE times and landed wheels down in the grassy median now facing 80 East. The guy who eventually came to help us out of the car couldn’t believe we were alive. I will say this, and this is true for all of my vehicular mishaps: I was completely sober. And, this happened at about 10am in the morning on a clear day. I am pleased to report that we had on our seatbelts and were not seriously injured. In fact, Dave had not a single scratch. We did find a lot of safety glass in our ears and hair though. We broke up not too long after that. PS: I miss you Dave! What happened to you? PS: Thanks for saving the ounce (these were neo-hippie college days, you know) we stashed for the trip in the stereo speaker before the cops came.
OK folks, let me tell you about my Uncle Wayne.
Now, understand that this story is from Wayne himself as he was alone when it happened. So you can draw your own conclusions.
Wayne was fixing the upright vacuum cleaner for his wife. He had it laying on the kitchen table upside down with the underneath parts exposed and the cover plate off. He was smoking. And the cleaner was plugged in. At this point, the Darwin Award/ “Wayne is full of shit” alarms should be going off in your head.
So he’d been working on it a while when he decided to take a break and a shower. He was undressed for the shower when he realized that he was still holding a cigarette and walked to the kitchen table to put it out in the ashtray, leaning over the vacuum to do so. Somehow, the vacuum cleaner “just switched on.”
Yes. Mr. happy got vacuumed. And not by a suction tube like on a floor model vac. No, this was the Rollers that grabbed ahold of Waynes Brains. Long story short, Wayne became less of a man. He managed to get to the back patio and yell for help from a neighbor before passing out from blood loss. The EMS got there in time and he survived OK apart from the permanent loss of an unspecified quantity of Johnson.
Some years later, I was at my grandmothers wake when someone pointed him out to me and some of my cousins. You can imagine the snickergigglefest™ that ensued.
See, that’s why you always go with the “i was vacuuming naked” story, it’s (slightly) more plausible.
I still don’t ever see why anyone wold think that penis + vacuum = good idea. Sure, it may look like it could simulate a BJ from the onset, but stop and think: when was the last time a girl going down on a guy sounded like a hoover?
I was working as a desk clerk at a busy sold-out hotel at the height of summer when a couple wandered in and asked if they had reservations with us. Their names wern’t on my list, and they admitted that they forgot what hotel they had reservations with.
The guy was doing most of the talking, and so I told him I’d call any hotels I had phone numbers for and see if his reservations are there. I call a few, but nobody has his name down. Then I call the Ocean Pacific Lodge. The desk clerk there was having a hard time looking through the reservations, and couldn’t figure out if the guy’s name is there or not. We wern’t communicating well and he was getting frusterated that he couldn’t find the information.
Then he gets a brilliant idea. The reason why town was so packed that weekend is because there is a large classic car convention- “Woodies on the Wharf”. The Ocean Pacific Lodge is the place to stay for this, and so this particular weekend is booked up years in advance. The clerk told me to ask the guy if he’s part of this.
So I look up and ask, with all seriousness, “Do you have a woody?”
His girlfriend wasn’t amused, and it took the clerk on the phone five minutes to stop laughing.
Clothahump, the local police do something similar with the rookies here. They give them an address and tell them that they’ve got a report of multiple dead bodies (using the police code number for that) at that address. The rookie of course races towards the address, but almost invariably has trouble finding it. It’s only when they find the address (which isn’t very prominantly displayed on the location) that they realize they’ve been had. The address is that of the main cemetary in town. 
Years ago when I was living in Houston a tree limb fell on my car during a windstorm. I lived in the Montrose area close to downtown, but for some reason I’ve now forgotten I wound up taking the car to a body shop way out on the west side of town, miles and miles outside the loop.
When I dropped the car off I asked the guys in the bodyshop office if they could call me a cab. The manager dialed the number of cab company on the phone on his desk and handed me the receiver.
The phone rang and a woman picked up. “Good afternoon,” she said, “This is the law office of Buddy Q. Lawyer.”
Buddy Q. Lawyer was the attorney who had handled my divorce the year before.
I was so stunned I couldn’t even say anything. I just hung up. When I told the manager what had happened he told me that he’d never even heard of Buddy, let alone called him for any reason. When he tried dialling the cab company again, he got through right away.
Thoroughly weirded out, I wait out front for the cab. (I mean, Houston is BIG … what are the odds of randomly calling someone you know?) When the cab shows up I climb in and give the driver directions to the place where I worked, a little mom & pop photo service bureau.
“616 Hawthorne … it’s this little building near downtown just off Westheimer. Just start heading east and I can give you better directions when we get closer … .”
He starts to drive out of the lot.
“616 Hawthorne? No problem. That’s Nowdefunct Photo Retouching. I used to work there a few years ago before I started driving a cab … .”
I sat very quietly in the back seat all the way to work.
Not all that well at the time (although not disastrously), but now she thinks it’s funny. Fortunately.
Hmmm… horrific motel cleaning story, or 3 AM in Watts story? Motel story. Although there’s no way in hell I can top most of the above stories.
Right out of high school I worked for a motel in Barstow, CA for several months. It’s tough sweaty work in the desert, and you’re expected to average about 20 minutes per unit. Once I got up to speed it was no problem, except that once in a while some whack job would rent a room for a couple of days and leave it filthy.
Then comes The Family Whack Job. Mom, dad, two toddlers and god knows who else. They drove an ancient station wagon packed with what looked like newspapers and flattened boxes, lived in the room for a week and wouldn’t let any of us in; they just left the dirty towels outside for us to clean. I kept praying I wouldn’t get their room when they left. God, however, was not listening.
Sure enough they left right at check-out time on one of my days. I walked into the room, and my worst nightmares were exceeded. There were beer cans everywhere, filled with cigarette butts. How did I know that? Most of them were tipped over and golden-black liquid was spilling all over our semi-clean carpeting. The sheets were covered in blood and piss. I had to open every damn window and turn the AC on high to get the smell out. The bathroom was filthy, but the worst part was that they apparently had animals-- there was kitty litter under the sink. Lots of kitty litter, filled with kitty tootsie rolls, and no container whatsoever. Just mounds of chocolate chip kitty litter.
It took me 45 freakin’ minutes to clean that room, breathing the whole time with my mouth open. I did open one of the unopened beers for sustenance, though. However, I realized this was a bad idea when I accidently swigged one of the cigarette-flavored beers by accident. I think the dry heaves took up another 10 minutes.
To add insult to injury the night manager chewed me out for taking so long. At least I had half a sixpack to comfort me.
I found this live description of a traffic accident the other day - well worth a listen (and a chuckle)…
Grim
This had my laughing so hard, I was crying.
Ha! A 20 horsepower jackhammer! Little bitty Mother Goose woman! I can see her now…I will never drive without my umbrella and little black purse again.
I am full of shame. I was just trying to Top That, not actually saying anything true. Hell, I don’t even know The Composer.
I’ll try to think of a true story to tell.
Daniel