Group and stories in the discussion topics quite hilarious
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2 ... 2364807742
Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
12 posts • Page 1 of 1
Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by da-boy-ch on Thu Dec 18, 2008 7:14 pm
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da-boy-ch - Posts: 3096
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Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by Apollo on Fri Dec 19, 2008 12:11 pm
"He whispered Awooga into her ear, and patted her on the fanny"
i need to read on no more, that was funny and i fear the quality will only deteriorate.
i need to read on no more, that was funny and i fear the quality will only deteriorate.
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Apollo - Posts: 2955
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Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by chockablock on Fri Dec 19, 2008 2:15 pm
i was too stupid to find the links to the other stories
"i had finally realised every rockstars dream, hating being famous"
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chockablock - Posts: 4350
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Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by Apollo on Fri Dec 19, 2008 2:16 pm
me too, but i didnt want to say.
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Apollo - Posts: 2955
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Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by Subversive on Fri Dec 19, 2008 2:19 pm
Stolen from the Football365 forum all those, well the original ones that is
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Subversive - Site Admin
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Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by chockablock on Fri Dec 19, 2008 2:23 pm
Apollo wrote:me too, but i didnt want to say.
i know. i was just translating your post
"i had finally realised every rockstars dream, hating being famous"
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chockablock - Posts: 4350
- Joined: Mon May 20, 2002 6:57 pm
Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by da-boy-ch on Fri Dec 19, 2008 7:16 pm
Akabusi and the Chocolate Fountain
Akabusi was in a great mood. He’d just won two quid on a scratch card and re-invested it on a steak bake. And another steak bake. He’d given the loose change to Regis who had spent the last 37.23 minutes dividing it into piles according to how far he could throw it. It was the best way to exercise him.
To add to the buoyant mood, Akabusi, Black and Regis had spent the morning doing some ritual back-slapping and high-fiving in preparation for a JJB opening in Ealing. Things nearly got out of hand when Regis insisted that the total number of backslaps and high-fives had to be exactly equal to the square root of the lowest prime number he could think of. Which was 1. As they’d already been at it for half an hour, Akabusi could sense there might be trouble. Luckily he had a packet of skittles, some lubricant and a cattle prod, and poor Regis had soon forgotten.
Busi looked at his diary and his piano-tooth grin lit up like a newly-ostracized smoker in the rain:
2pm – JJB Opening
3pm – Wank
4pm – Wank
5pm – Wank
6pm – Attend Michael Johnson’s wedding
Akabusi had never forgiven Johnson for once trying to slip a finger up his brown canal when they were doing Marion Jones family-style in the changing room of a Footlocker in Padstowe. Retribution had come quicker than Dean Gaffney, Busi immediately removing his onyx slugger from Jones and using it to beat Johnson to within twelve inches of his athletically successful life.
Still, the man had taken liberties, and today he was going to realise that Busi’s memory was as long as his member. And Johnson’s fiancée was going to realise that Busi’s member was as long and memorable as a Ridley Scott epic. Though thankfully it had never been involved with Orlando Bloom.
With both the JJB opening and 3 hour leisure-wank in the bank, Busi hooked up with Black and Regis and headed off to the wedding. Strictly speaking Regis hadn’t been invited because Johnson was scared of retards. But then again strictly speaking Akabusi hadn’t been invited to devastate the bride like a Peruvian earthquake. But he was going to do it anyway. Like God.
On the drive over, Akabusi decided he’d best just leave Regis in the car. Johnson really did get freaked by the handicapped, but at least that meant Grey-Thompson would be struck off the guestlist. Hard and into a wall if possible. As an Olympic bronze-medallist he was forced to admire her golds, but they were in div sports against other machine-enhanced divs. He would have beaten them by miles in his Corsa. Now she was retired though, she didn’t even have that to keep her busy. Lazy little cunt, he thought; but maybe up the arse.
Busi pulled the Corsa up outside the church gates. He liked to pretend that it had air breaks, but it was really just him farting and then laughing with enough force to evict a gypsy. As he got out of the car and walked into the church grounds he could feel the holy air flowing around his flesh sepulchre and wondered how much longer he’d have to wait to have his chocolate bishop sainted.
He’d been intending to wear his best suit dungs today, but they were still unusable after a recent outing, so following the religious theme he’d opted for a pair of monastic dungs he’d bought for a fancy dress party. A monk going monk. His laughter at the time had been so infectious he’d nearly been quarantined by customs and excise.
Busi strolled into the church and his divine weapon bowed before God. Briefly. He was starting to feel clungestraphobic. As the hessien-weave of his dungarees rubbed against his rapidly-stiffening member, it became awfully uncomfortable. Like being forced to watch dwarf porn with your Gran. On your nob.
Already the chaffing was serious. The last time he’d seen something so rash, it had an IQ of 65 and was invading the Middle East. But Busi had other plans. He wanted to go drilling for clunge oil. He let slip his holy dungs and strode manfully – on his three legs - to the front of the church. The assembled crowd were astonished and thought it might be the Second Coming.
“Not yet it’s not”, cried Busi hysterically. The grin that spread across his face was so big that he looked like a god-sized pint of guinness. With teeth. And a massive black dick for a handle.
Busi was sat on the front row (to allow himself clearance), whilst Johnson was stood near the priest and next to a cardboard cut out of himself that he’d asked to be his Best Man. In fairness to the cardboard cut out it had never actually said Yes. Or No. Or anything else for that matter. It was a fucking cardboard cut out. Johnson was probably only scared of retards because he was one.
Suddenly Busi heard the organ begin to play, and felt the increasing need for someone to play with his organ. He turned to look – accidentally blinding two guests with his meat trombone in the process. Walking down the aisle towards him was a piece of clunge so epic, dirty and tight that it could have stolen all eleven of Titanic’s Oscars, used them to deflower virgins and then handed them back in to claim the reward without washing them first. Underneath the bride’s dress Busi could sense a pair of bristols so full-bodied, rich and dark you could make black coffee just by dipping them in a warm bath.
Despite the undoubted filth of her clunge, her face had a quiet, serene, almost angelic look about it. Like Portman before Busi had done with her. Johnson looked longingly down the aisle at what he thought was his future wife, and for a brief moment Busi was touched. He quickly realised that it was just one of the bridesmaid’s stood next to him and relaxed. He considered having a go on her – his cockscrew couldn’t wait to get into a bit of vintage red – but a quick look again at the bride and his massive ebony painsaw made up his mind.
As the bride-to-be continued up the aisle, Busi could wait no longer. Hurdling over pews like he was back in Barcelona, he intercepted her halfway up the church. Such was the commotion that no one noticed Blacky slip in from the vestry and forcibly remove the groom. Mostly Black killed because he had to. But this one he’d enjoy. Back in the thick of things Johnson’s fiancée had caught sight of Busi’s trouser serpent and was quickly realising why the Garden of Eden didn’t last. Busi ripped off her wedding dress and was delighted to see her pair of chocolate mochas were everything he’d hoped for and more. The desire on her face was more obvious than a jimmy carr nob gag and she was now clearly salivating from both ends. Busi was soon up to his high hurdles in clunge, and the assembled crowd faded into nothingness as the two became one. As a final fuck you to Johnson, he rammed a digit hard up her back exit-cum-entrance; to his surprise, gasping, she merely asked if he could put more of him in her. Even the Irish didn’t love the black stuff this much.
After several hours Busi was on his violent, explosive, god-given vinegars, depositing such a load of knacker cream that the inland revenue later asked him to provide a vat receipt for it. Pulling his toothless black panther out of her, Busi felt righteous. He’d not caused such serious fancy damage since Fatima Whitbread had died of a glutinous flange when he’d swamped her in circa 80’s man fat. He pumped his fist low and hard like he was winding a midget. This girl had been game; and she’d been brave. But ultimately, she’d been Busi-ed.
Turning to the bridesmaid who had been watching enviously throughout the ordeal, Busi roared,
“Do you like sweets?”
“I suppose so”, she said, confused but cock hungry.
Kris smiled.
“Well open up, you’re about to get a massive chocolate gum drop”
Her mouth fell open in miscomprehension and seizing his chance he fired an afterburst of cue ball sauce straight into her face hole, knocking her clean back into her seat and out cold. One less witness, he thought.
Slipping back into his hessien dungs, Busi went over to survey the wreckage of the former fiancée. She looked like a chocolate fountain that had been hijacked by the milky bar kid. Looking round at the apocalyptic scene of bemused relatives, jizz-drenched page-boys and absent 400 metre runners, Busi bent down on a sacrilegious knee, whispered “awooga” in her ear, and patted her on the fanny.
The End
Akabusi was in a great mood. He’d just won two quid on a scratch card and re-invested it on a steak bake. And another steak bake. He’d given the loose change to Regis who had spent the last 37.23 minutes dividing it into piles according to how far he could throw it. It was the best way to exercise him.
To add to the buoyant mood, Akabusi, Black and Regis had spent the morning doing some ritual back-slapping and high-fiving in preparation for a JJB opening in Ealing. Things nearly got out of hand when Regis insisted that the total number of backslaps and high-fives had to be exactly equal to the square root of the lowest prime number he could think of. Which was 1. As they’d already been at it for half an hour, Akabusi could sense there might be trouble. Luckily he had a packet of skittles, some lubricant and a cattle prod, and poor Regis had soon forgotten.
Busi looked at his diary and his piano-tooth grin lit up like a newly-ostracized smoker in the rain:
2pm – JJB Opening
3pm – Wank
4pm – Wank
5pm – Wank
6pm – Attend Michael Johnson’s wedding
Akabusi had never forgiven Johnson for once trying to slip a finger up his brown canal when they were doing Marion Jones family-style in the changing room of a Footlocker in Padstowe. Retribution had come quicker than Dean Gaffney, Busi immediately removing his onyx slugger from Jones and using it to beat Johnson to within twelve inches of his athletically successful life.
Still, the man had taken liberties, and today he was going to realise that Busi’s memory was as long as his member. And Johnson’s fiancée was going to realise that Busi’s member was as long and memorable as a Ridley Scott epic. Though thankfully it had never been involved with Orlando Bloom.
With both the JJB opening and 3 hour leisure-wank in the bank, Busi hooked up with Black and Regis and headed off to the wedding. Strictly speaking Regis hadn’t been invited because Johnson was scared of retards. But then again strictly speaking Akabusi hadn’t been invited to devastate the bride like a Peruvian earthquake. But he was going to do it anyway. Like God.
On the drive over, Akabusi decided he’d best just leave Regis in the car. Johnson really did get freaked by the handicapped, but at least that meant Grey-Thompson would be struck off the guestlist. Hard and into a wall if possible. As an Olympic bronze-medallist he was forced to admire her golds, but they were in div sports against other machine-enhanced divs. He would have beaten them by miles in his Corsa. Now she was retired though, she didn’t even have that to keep her busy. Lazy little cunt, he thought; but maybe up the arse.
Busi pulled the Corsa up outside the church gates. He liked to pretend that it had air breaks, but it was really just him farting and then laughing with enough force to evict a gypsy. As he got out of the car and walked into the church grounds he could feel the holy air flowing around his flesh sepulchre and wondered how much longer he’d have to wait to have his chocolate bishop sainted.
He’d been intending to wear his best suit dungs today, but they were still unusable after a recent outing, so following the religious theme he’d opted for a pair of monastic dungs he’d bought for a fancy dress party. A monk going monk. His laughter at the time had been so infectious he’d nearly been quarantined by customs and excise.
Busi strolled into the church and his divine weapon bowed before God. Briefly. He was starting to feel clungestraphobic. As the hessien-weave of his dungarees rubbed against his rapidly-stiffening member, it became awfully uncomfortable. Like being forced to watch dwarf porn with your Gran. On your nob.
Already the chaffing was serious. The last time he’d seen something so rash, it had an IQ of 65 and was invading the Middle East. But Busi had other plans. He wanted to go drilling for clunge oil. He let slip his holy dungs and strode manfully – on his three legs - to the front of the church. The assembled crowd were astonished and thought it might be the Second Coming.
“Not yet it’s not”, cried Busi hysterically. The grin that spread across his face was so big that he looked like a god-sized pint of guinness. With teeth. And a massive black dick for a handle.
Busi was sat on the front row (to allow himself clearance), whilst Johnson was stood near the priest and next to a cardboard cut out of himself that he’d asked to be his Best Man. In fairness to the cardboard cut out it had never actually said Yes. Or No. Or anything else for that matter. It was a fucking cardboard cut out. Johnson was probably only scared of retards because he was one.
Suddenly Busi heard the organ begin to play, and felt the increasing need for someone to play with his organ. He turned to look – accidentally blinding two guests with his meat trombone in the process. Walking down the aisle towards him was a piece of clunge so epic, dirty and tight that it could have stolen all eleven of Titanic’s Oscars, used them to deflower virgins and then handed them back in to claim the reward without washing them first. Underneath the bride’s dress Busi could sense a pair of bristols so full-bodied, rich and dark you could make black coffee just by dipping them in a warm bath.
Despite the undoubted filth of her clunge, her face had a quiet, serene, almost angelic look about it. Like Portman before Busi had done with her. Johnson looked longingly down the aisle at what he thought was his future wife, and for a brief moment Busi was touched. He quickly realised that it was just one of the bridesmaid’s stood next to him and relaxed. He considered having a go on her – his cockscrew couldn’t wait to get into a bit of vintage red – but a quick look again at the bride and his massive ebony painsaw made up his mind.
As the bride-to-be continued up the aisle, Busi could wait no longer. Hurdling over pews like he was back in Barcelona, he intercepted her halfway up the church. Such was the commotion that no one noticed Blacky slip in from the vestry and forcibly remove the groom. Mostly Black killed because he had to. But this one he’d enjoy. Back in the thick of things Johnson’s fiancée had caught sight of Busi’s trouser serpent and was quickly realising why the Garden of Eden didn’t last. Busi ripped off her wedding dress and was delighted to see her pair of chocolate mochas were everything he’d hoped for and more. The desire on her face was more obvious than a jimmy carr nob gag and she was now clearly salivating from both ends. Busi was soon up to his high hurdles in clunge, and the assembled crowd faded into nothingness as the two became one. As a final fuck you to Johnson, he rammed a digit hard up her back exit-cum-entrance; to his surprise, gasping, she merely asked if he could put more of him in her. Even the Irish didn’t love the black stuff this much.
After several hours Busi was on his violent, explosive, god-given vinegars, depositing such a load of knacker cream that the inland revenue later asked him to provide a vat receipt for it. Pulling his toothless black panther out of her, Busi felt righteous. He’d not caused such serious fancy damage since Fatima Whitbread had died of a glutinous flange when he’d swamped her in circa 80’s man fat. He pumped his fist low and hard like he was winding a midget. This girl had been game; and she’d been brave. But ultimately, she’d been Busi-ed.
Turning to the bridesmaid who had been watching enviously throughout the ordeal, Busi roared,
“Do you like sweets?”
“I suppose so”, she said, confused but cock hungry.
Kris smiled.
“Well open up, you’re about to get a massive chocolate gum drop”
Her mouth fell open in miscomprehension and seizing his chance he fired an afterburst of cue ball sauce straight into her face hole, knocking her clean back into her seat and out cold. One less witness, he thought.
Slipping back into his hessien dungs, Busi went over to survey the wreckage of the former fiancée. She looked like a chocolate fountain that had been hijacked by the milky bar kid. Looking round at the apocalyptic scene of bemused relatives, jizz-drenched page-boys and absent 400 metre runners, Busi bent down on a sacrilegious knee, whispered “awooga” in her ear, and patted her on the fanny.
The End
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da-boy-ch - Posts: 3096
- Joined: Fri Aug 19, 2005 2:34 pm
Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by chockablock on Sat Dec 20, 2008 5:19 am
"i had finally realised every rockstars dream, hating being famous"
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chockablock - Posts: 4350
- Joined: Mon May 20, 2002 6:57 pm
Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by oxyGEN Tent on Sat Dec 20, 2008 1:02 pm
laughing with enough force to evict a gypsy
bit romanyist that, mate
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oxyGEN Tent - Posts: 1040
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- Location: UK
Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by beagletron on Sat Dec 20, 2008 5:21 pm
naughty temp, ch!!
I'll miss you and all your bad behaviour. know that the attic will mourn your loss and it will be felt by all who have applied via the UCAS system.
I'll miss you and all your bad behaviour. know that the attic will mourn your loss and it will be felt by all who have applied via the UCAS system.
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beagletron - Posts: 1033
- Joined: Thu Feb 22, 2007 12:43 pm
Re: Depending on your sense of humour i find this....
by da-boy-ch on Mon Dec 22, 2008 9:36 pm
beagletron wrote:naughty temp, ch!!
I'll miss you and all your bad behaviour. know that the attic will mourn your loss and it will be felt by all who have applied via the UCAS system.
Im gonna miss me lil babies, haha. Should have seen me today, storming out the room after 2/3 mins to piss, shit or be sick, naughty temp!
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da-boy-ch - Posts: 3096
- Joined: Fri Aug 19, 2005 2:34 pm
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