N.Sane thinks she’s goaded me into telling that really, really funny story, but N. Sane is wrong. There is no way in hell I’m telling that particular one. I’d be glad to share the story about the projectile vomit or the time I drank a bottle of nail polish remover and had to have my stomach pumped (I was very little and very stupid). I’d even be glad to tell about the time I threw up in the back seat of N. Sane’s car–she paid our brother P ten whole dollars to clean the puke up, and I was incensed that he wouldn’t share the ten bucks. After all if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have that fabulous money-making opportunity. But I will NOT be telling the story N.Sane is alluding to. Nice try though.
OK, I’m being maligned here. If Izzybella were ever to reveal that story, I’d drop dead from astonishment.
So this won’t turn into a hijack, I’ll tell another one on me that my mother likes to bring up. When we were growing up, I was the kid who always had to get my stomach pumped because everything I encountered immediately went into my mouth for further investigation. I have had my stomach pumped after eating: melted down Johnson’s floor wax (the can tipped over and I stood underneath and gulped); blue paint that the neighbors threw away while they were moving out; and–in one memorable day–my mother’s birth control pills and my aunt’s morning sickness pills. The doctor told my mother that I was hedging my bets either way. Mom likes that story.
N.Sane, tell your brother I’ll give him ten bucks if he’ll tell me Izzybella’s story. 
I know what you mean. I have a nephew, Robert, now 16, whose mom used to say, “Shoo!! Nasty!!” and make funny faces (designed to make the baby laugh) when she’d change a dirty diaper. He eventually came to refer to the poop itself as “shoonasty.” When he was about three or four years old, my hubby had killed a deer and was cleaning it when he accidentally nicked the bowel and the contents leaked out a bit. Robert looked around at all of us and said confidentially, “I know what that is. That’s shoonasty!” We all just about died laughing!!
My dad still likes to tease me about an incident that happened when I was about 3 years old. My parents had some friends over one night, and according to my dad I marched up to one guy who I didn’t even know, and declared: “Socks don’t talk, they just sit in the dryer and mind their own business!”
I don’t remember saying it, and I can’t imagine why I said it.
That. Is. The best.
Why is that not your sig? That should totally be your sig.
Well my sister and I always talk about how my brother carried a purse for about six months when he was three years old. He’ll NEVER live that one down. 
Then there’s the time my mom walked in on my sister, about two years old, masturbating furiously while sitting on the couch. She was so shocked she didn’t know what to do. She asked our dad, and he said “Tell her that if she wants to do that she should go in her room and close the door.” Level-headed one, my dad.
But me? I don’t have any embarrassing stories…unless you count the day I showed my entire preschool class my underwear, stood on a chair and screamed “I HATE EVERYBODY” and kicked a poor fellow classmate in the ass. To this day, I’m the only person I know who’s been expelled from preschool.
When I was little I used to be very active and prone to skipping baths/showers. So one day, I proudly showed my sisters a new talent I had found I had: I could fold my ears over (top to bottom) and by pressing hard enough, they would stick that way! Apparently accumulated sweat and dirt can make for a pretty powerful adhesive. Then when they saw this, they made me take a shower and I bragged to them later that I could see the dirt running off of me. They always bring this up at our reunions with our cousins.
I shower every day now, and always make sure to get behind my ears, thank you very much.
Well, it has only been a few weeks. Give her time, she’ll get over it.
Around second grade, my mother was a SAHM. We had just started the school year and our teacher helped us to fill out a paper about ourselves and our families so we could share it with the class. I guess a type of ice-breaker, though I doubt you’d see many of the questions now. Under the question which asked what my mom’s career was I answered, “nun.” When I brought the paper home, my mother laughed until tears came, and then explained the difference between “none” and “nun.”
My Dad tells 3 stories about me every time he meets any of my friends, especially boyfriends. They’re not terribly embarassing, more like funny, at least to him. Even if they were embarassing, after listening to them so many times, I’d have learned to deal with it by now.
Apparently, I was a talker as a toddler. Quite a talker, as in non-stop talking. So, 2 hours into a 10 hour drive from southern NM to southern KS, me babbling about nothing the entire time, my Dad had had enough. He told me, “Sami, if you don’t shut up, I’m going to take you to East Texas.” I had no idea where East Texas was, or why that was a viable threat, but apparently it made an impression on me. As Dad tells it, I didn’t say a word for 200 miles. He still laughingly threatens me with East Texas.
Sticking with the Texas theme, or maybe because of that East Texas threat, Dad’s favorite story:
On another trip across the mid-west, when I was maybe 4 years old, I had fallen asleep and woke up when we stopped for gas. I looked around and asked where we were. Dalhart, TX, I was told. I looked around in amazement and said, I guess in complete suprise, “There’s people in Texas!” “Of course, who did you think was in Texas?” “Well, Texans.”
Who knew? Texans are people, too!*
Upon telling my Dad that I was moving to Dallas several years back, the first thing he had to say was, “You do know there’s people there, right” in that Do-you-really-know-what-your-19yo-brain-is-thinking-?, Dad-like warning tone (completly in jest).
This last one actually did embarass me throughout my pre-teen years. Eventually, I saw the humor in it. Or at least stopped being embarassed by it.
I was 4 years old and my Dad was Truck-Shopping. We’d been at a car lot for hours when nature called. I told my Folks that I needed the bathroom and my Dad asked me (I have no idea why), “Do you need to deficate?” Well, I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound to me like something a little girl could easily pull off, especially not when I needed to pee. So, I played the KidCard and said “No, Daddy, I’m not big enough.”
When Dad tells that story he laughs so hard he get’s tears in his eyes, still to this day. I’m not too sure why it’s so much funnier to him than it is to anyone else, but he brings it up a lot.
To Dad’s credit, he tells stories about the other kids, and even himself, too.
*No offense to Texans, I was just a little kid.
I was the preacher’s kid, three years old at the time of this story. In the church’s Christmas pageant, the 3YOs, led by me, came on stage in a line, bearing gifts that we put around the manger. Then we sang a little Christmas song. After the song, I picked my gift back up and started off stage. All the other 3YOs also picked up their gifts and followed me off stage.
I’m told that the congregation had a good laugh.
Some good ones I tell about my brother:
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When he was in high school he left home by himself in the family truck. Just down the road he realized he forgot something and came back. He left the truck (in neutral, as it turned out) in the side driveway and ran into the house. While he was inside the truck rulled down the hill and wiped out a eucalyptus tree.
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When he was home from college for Thanksgiving one year and I was in jr. high, we were both searching for something to eat. He opened the fridge and saw a glass mason jar with a brown substance in it. “Oh look, leftover turkey,” he said.
“No, that’s cake yeast,” I said. He looked at me like I was a complete idiot.
“That’s turkey!” he said.
I held my peace after this as he took a nice big bite. Of course I was right and he was wrong about the jar’s contents, as I’d seen Mom buy it a few days before. He spewed that mouthful of yeast all over the sink.
I LOVE that story!
There’s another one about his dating life after college, but he’s asked me to let it drop, as apparently he finds it genuinely embarassing. It’s nearly a decade later and he’s married now, so maybe he wouldn’t mind if I resurrected it.
A story some of our relatives like to tell about me is that I once ate nine pieces of barbecued chicken at a cookout when I was about 10 years old. I was a very big 10-year-old, but that is a lot of chicken.
My parents used to threaten to send me to Mean Man Boarding School when I’d misbehave. This worked until I learned to read. Then I looked up “Mean Man Boarding School” in the phone book, and showed them it wasn’t there. We laugh about that.
My brother’s faux pas is a lot funnier. One day, when my very proper Aunt Shirley was visiting, my brother came downstairs, stark naked but wrapped in a blanket. He stood in front of the TV set, took the blanket off, and started doing an Elvis swivelhips kinda thing. He then started singing “I use a disposable douche! I use a disposable douche!” repeatedly, until my mother put a stop to it.
Robin
I have an old video of me about 4 years old, lip synching and (doing my version of) dancing along to “Hangin’ Tough” by New Kids on the Block.
My brother had a speech impediment when he was young. He couldn’t say ‘th’ or ‘ch’ and often just changed the way syllables were arranged to make it easier for him.
So, ketchup became keppets.
I still call it keppets, and I plan on teaching his son to call it the same.
He also said Red Losper, for Red Lobster. My mom still brings that up, even since he was diagnosed dyslexic in college and has had his speech problem remedied since he was four or five.
Had part of my scrotum caught in my zipper at age 7.
I don’t even know where to begin!!!
Penis caught in zipper
Hospital visit after shoving Tic Tac up my nose, same thing with a Cheerio in my ear
Wet the bed at around the age of 5 while having a sleepover where a friend from kindergarten was sleeping in the same bed (I cried and sobbed while hearing him tell his parents about it upon picking him up).
My mom still tells my dates and friends about when as a kid they’d find me in people’s closets putting their shoes on (but it embarasses me most because I still have a shoe fetish which they obviously think I’ve outgrown!) :eek:
Oh boy, I know there’s a million more that are WAAAAYYY funnier, but they don’t come to mind right now.
I’m a bit dubious about the poster who wrote about the poop that was mistaken for a candy bar and eaten…that’s a scene right out of Caddyshack when Bill Murray’s character is cleaning the pool.
Mom likes to tell about the time I ate a Japanese beerle when I was about two years old. My brothers and sister (who have no memory of the insect swallowing, since I’m the oldest of the four kids) bring up a time when the family was at a restaurant and I told the waitress: “I’ll have the shrimp platter.” I apparently inadvertently made a funny face after relaying my order, as retellings are always “highlighted” by imitations of this slack-jawed “duh” look.
My Aunt Karen had the biggest repertoire of these tales. An equal-opportunity mocker, she delighted in embarrassing all of us. Were she alive to contribute to this thread, she’d recall these gems:
I couldn’t correctly pronounce the word “pretty”, so I kept praising a stuffed toy by saying that Sniffles is a proddy mouse." Later, I reacted to a Halloween decoration by sobbing and screaming that “I don’t like that pumpkin face!”
When we were over at Grandma and Aunt Karen’s house, a man was fitting newly-ordered slipcovers to the living-room couch. My brother Mike informed Grandma: “See that man out there, Grandma! I love that man!”
My brother Mark became a fluent speaker before he mastered toilet training. He’d reveal his need for a diaper change by announcing: “Grandma, I hate to tell you this, but I’m messy.”
One Thanksgiving, Aunt Sharon (Karen’s sister) was supposed to prepare dessert but somehow never got around to it. At every subsequent Turkey Day dinner, Aunt Karen would relate Grandma’s reaction: “Shetty said she was going to make the pies! Sherry makes big shit!”