Another one from when I was very young, maybe one of my earliest memories. I was at a grown up party with my parents and shying away from everyone and clinging to one of my parents legs. I was clinging to that leg for dear life and studying the place when I look some distance away notice my parents there… both of them. I then look up at the owner of that leg, who is a very old, bald gentleman I had never seen before in my life. Somehow I had swapped legs and everyone was having a grand old time laughing at my expense. Hehe. I think I proceeded to throw a huge tantrum out of sheer embarrassment.
That is a difficult lesson to learn, that generally, adult women don’t care, and if anything, can be terribly sympathetic to a young girl who is having a tough time.
Here is a more cute, amusing one.
I took Spanish from eigth grade to 12 grade - loved it that much. Anyway, in my sophpmore year of high school, I had a teacher named Mr. Hafner. I had a big old crush on him, and I kind of think he knew, and it made him a little uncomfortable, though he was very nice. It wasn’t like I was the only girl crushing, anyway.
Anyway, we were doing some sort of lesson, and I was having trouble with the verb “hacer”, which I think means “to do”. Well, not really thinking about it, I raised my hand, and said, “Senor Hafner, does ‘hace’ mean ‘do me’?” Oops! I turned quite pink.
As if that weren’t bad enough, there were those punk guys in the back of the classroom that are always there, in every classroom, and they started singing “Do me, baby!” by Bell Biv Devoe, pretty loudly. Oof.
I think I was scarlet by the end of that. And poor, poor Senor Hafner just shifted to an entirely different lesson.
My spelling bee word was “embarrassed.” That pretty much sums it up.
You had me at this.
(I kid, I kid!)
Not the most embarrassing, but high up there…
Giving a semi-extemporaneous technical speech in front of about 50 engineers a few weeks ago, my brain tried to adverbify the word ‘corollary’. ‘…is corollarily related to…’ may or may not be proper queen’s written English, but the human tongue is mechanically incapable of creating the required Sammy-Davis-Jr-on-crack tap dancing within the mouth required to output that word.
“So we see how the requirements are corollabrily…um, colloroly…er, collobrilly. Sigh. Collililly. Columrillilly. Corollililiby…Ugh, sorry everyone…share aspects with the supporting documents…” :smack:
The only way it could have been worse is if I’d tried to squeeze something about anemones and linoleum in the same sentence.
(I told the following story in a different thread not too long ago, but the thread didn’t go very far and it fits better here anyway, so what the heck – here it is again.)
Many years ago, when the world was young and the audio cassette was a commonly used music format, I used to be fond of making party mixes. I was in college, and some friends of mine shared a big house off-campus. Keggers there were frequent, and I was happy to help provide the tunes.
One Saturday night, my latest tape was turning in the deck. One of the songs on it was Jerry Lee Lewis’s version of Chantilly Lace. You may be more familiar with the hit version by the Big Bopper, which starts out with “Hello, Baaaaaby!” …JLL began his rendition with “Well, hellooo, you good-lookin’ thang, you!”
So at a certain point, I – and nobody else in the house – knew that this was the next song coming up on the tape. My drunken, college-aged self decided that a really clever thing to do would be, just as the previous song was fading out, to turn to the hottest girl at the party and loudly proclaim, “Well, hellooo, you good-lookin’ thang, you!” You see, then one second later Jerry Lee would say exactly the same thing, everybody would laugh, and hot girl would think I’m cool.
What I didn’t know, because the stereo was in a different room, was that somebody at that very moment decided he wanted to listen to a different tape.
(song fades out)
Me: “Well, hellooo, you good-lookin’ thang, you!”
(several seconds of awkward silence)
Girl: :dubious:
(completely unrelated song begins to play)
Me: :smack: “I need to go… uh… check the porch… for…”
(I slink off in total embarrassment)
You thought.
Now what, poser?
I was on a skiing holiday in Switzerland at a place called Saas Fee(not sure that I’ve spelled it correctly).
There was one particular run that at the very end narrowed considerably, and became very steep for a short distance, so virtually everyone would stop skiing and walk down this bit to the tow lift.
But I mastered it and used to show off to the queue by skiing down it at speed, and then along the line before doing a nice side brake that brought me to a rapid halt in an impressive spray of snow at the end of the line.
Except that one day I think that I must have got ice under my boot or something, went straight over onto my front and slid along on my face in front of about fifty German tourists.
Though I tried to look nonchalent when I got back upright I felt and looked a complete and utter twat.
After that I still skiied down the awkward bit but at slow speed.
Many years ago I went on a weekend trip with my new bride and her parents; we had been married maybe four months. They are religious folks, so Sunday morning church was a given.
We were in a semi-remote area of Pennsylvania, and the only church was a Very tiny country church, maybe the size of some large living rooms.
We were seated in the back pew, and it was not long into the service when I felt some unusual rumblings in my stomach. I immediately knew that I had to move them bowels and that it would be a serious movement.
I glanced around and took note of a single bathroom, not ten feet behind us. I stalled a bit – a bit too long, as it turned out - to the point where I was out of options. I rose and made my way to the bathroom.
It was a tiny bathroom in a tiny church, with a balsa-thin door. I could hear Every noise from the service as I sat there, afraid of the violence that was certain to erupt from my anus.
Sure enough, my bowels Exploded into the toilet bowl. I crapped loud and I crapped long. There was No Way that the majority of the parish did not hear what was going on back there (you know how quiet churches can be).
After another explosion or two (try as I might, there was no way to do this deed quietly), I sat and debated about how to proceed. Determining that the longer I sat there, the more embarrassing it would be to return to my seat, I finished my business and re-entered the service, avoiding any and all eye contact.
Wouldn’t you know it that I soon felt the need for a return visit. This time I spied a Burger King across the way, so I exited the church and took my business there. Afterwards, I returned to the car and waited until the service was over and my group returned.
Other than Mrs. Mustard briefly inquiring, “are you OK?”, this incident was never spoke of.
No, no, George Kaplin was quite correct. The thread was killed.
This is the zombie version, risen from the dead.
There are dozens… no thats a lie. Hundreds. Hundreds of stories / events that I am personally responsible/ to blame for. I don’t say this lightly; I don’t lie well anyway.
I was raised Catholic, and while I didn’t get to attend Catholic school (finger snap darn it) I had to attend CCD with some Damn Brutal nuns. And at my class’ ‘First Confession’, they expressed that we had to tell the Father everything.
Everything.
Nuh-uh, finger to lips …Everything!
So, I shrugged. And, to the best of my second grade mind/heart, I did. :eek:
To. This. Day. I am the Only person that I know of who has Ever made the Father fall out of his chair laughing during a first confession.
…and that was before I discovered girls & got a drivers license. 
Thursday - Migraine. Friday, got up feeling bad but DeHusband and I went to work anyway. Two hours later, I feel BAD. Stomach pain, nausea, chills. Right as I tell my office mates, “Ya know, I’m going to be sick.” I stand and barf all over myself. Second heave actually makes it into the garbage can. Third has office mate calling DeHusband telling him to come get me NOW. I clean as well as I can then cover myself with a towel as he pushes me out to the car. Misery is having barf in your bra all the way home. Oh and this happened yesterday. Merry Christmas.
How about two embarrassing moments on the same night?
I was on vacation in Mrytle Beach back in 2002, and, feeling restless and bored around 2 am, decided to hit the nearest bar for a few beers. It was a very sleazy looking place—it didn’t appear to have been cleaned for years—and the only patrons were drunk dudes yelling at each other. So I sat at the bar, smoked cigarettes, and drank.
After about an hour rolled by, a girl came in the door.
And not just any ordinary girl. She was beautiful. She was exquisite, I tell you. She had reddish wavy hair and was wearing a tight dress.
This girl walked around the bar for a bit, then sat down right next to me. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”
“Not at all,” I replied, trying to look casual. “What’s going on with you tonight?”
“It’s my 21st birthday. I wanted to party all night, but my friends went home early. So I guess I’ll party with you, huh?”
I agreed that was a good idea, and offered to buy her a drink, since it was her birthday and all. She wanted a White Russian. “A White Russian and another beer,” I called out.
The surly bartender came over with the drinks. “Eleven-fifty.”
It was a cash bar; I’d been paying as I went. So I reached in my pocket and came up with…nothing. I was out of cash. “Where’s the ATM?” I asked.
“No ATM here. Nearest one is a mile up the street.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, here, put it on my VISA.” I handed her the card.
She looked at me like I was a cockroach. “We don’t take cards at 2am. Cash only.”
I stood there, frozen like a deer in the headlights. This beautiful creature comes to sit with me and I don’t even have the means to buy her a drink! I started to stammer something about how I’d be right back after hitting the ATM, but she just smiled and pulled some money from her purse. “Just get the next round,” she said, “and besides, there’s a better bar up the street, you can use your card there.”
So we drank and talked for a bit, and eventually did leave for the second place she had mentioned.
At some point during the night, she asked me what I did for a living. “I’m a printer,” I said. “What about you, what do you do?”
She blushed a bit and said, “I’m a professional entertainer.”
“Entertainer?”
“Yes, entertainer.”
I was confused. “You mean, you sing and dance and all that?”
“No…I entertain people.”
I shook my head. “But how do you entertain them?”
She shrugged and sipped her drink. “Guys come in from out of town, and they want somebody to entertain them, so that’s what I do.”
She was a call girl! It took me that long to figure it out!
Back in college, we usually ended wrestling practice with some kind of physical conditioning. This time, just to change things up, the coaches decided that we would head to the pool – something we had never done before. The pool was accessible through the showers where we showered every day after practice. So, off we trod, down to the locker room to change, then through the showers and into the pool room.
I don’t know if I was simply out of it from trying to lose weight to make a certain weight class or if my mind was tied up in some personal drama, but as we left the wrestling room, and I filed in behind the others, I went into auto pilot mode. Take off clothes, wrap towel around self, walk to showers…follow others.
As we reached the side of the pool, guys began dropping their towels and jumping or diving in the pool, and just as I was about to follow suit, something in the back of my mind made me pause – I was vaguely aware that something was not quite right. And then I realized – unlike the others, I was bare ass naked under the towel! As I realized this and started laughing to myself, everyone in the pool realized why I was still standing on the side, wrapped in a towel. Instantly, I was the butt off 50 different jokes; even the coaches were making fun of me. I already had a reputation as being somewhat of a space case, and this certainly didn’t help matters…
So, did the ATM figure into the story after all?
Once upon a time, I was a 7th grade Life Science teacher in south Texas. Most of my students were ESL. Sex Ed was a part of my curriculum, and on this day I was explaining about the sperm fusing with the egg to form a zygote. One little girl interrupted my lecture to ask me “Mr. Scumpup, what does “blowjob” mean?” It was a sincere question; she had a vague idea it had something to do with sex but it was yet another unfamiliar English word for her.
It wasn’t something that would have been appropriate for me to explain in a 7th grade classroom to kids who came, overwhelmingly, from conservative Catholic families. So, thinking quickly, I said “Ask your mother.”
Mother and the principal were waiting for me the next morning.
I’d have paid for the next pitcher of beer had your next words been, “…A live demonstration wasn’t necessary, but Thank You, Mrs Stevens.”
OK. Here’s one. Back in the day, every few blocks had that one person who is mean to every kid on the street; someone who really would squirt the hose at you whenever possible. And being a kid, you wanted to strike back, but in ways that only a kid would think would work. It was summer time and somehow I had come into possession of a ‘smoke bomb’ firework. Thinking like a kid, I thought how funny it would be to light it off on the hood of his Caddy so he would run outside and be fooled. So I snuck out of bed late that night, slipped out of the house with it & a pack of matches, put it on the hood, lit it and ran.
Now there were just 6 things my young mind hadn’t accounted for:
-
At night, no one can see smoke.
-
The hoods of cars are never flat.
-
Hi, Opal..!
-
Round objects can and will roll to the point where something stops them from rolling further. Like a fuse, for example.
-
‘Smoke Bomb’ fireworks elicit a strong flame while burning to make their ‘smoke’.
-
Cadillac paint jobs are not flame resistant by any means.
In truth, it would have been kinder had I just called a string of taxis to his house.
She actually gave me a piece of ass for free at the end of the night, but we did it on the beach and she got sand in her eyes so we had to cut it short.
Unless you’re referring to the other kind of ATM. No, we didn’t do that.
She wanted me to come back and visit her, strangely enough. I guess you could say we hit it off in some weird way.
I see what you did there. 