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fart in my face? *stab stab stab stab stab stab stab*


keltoi

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Guest jasondonervan

"Deborah Ann Burns, from Immokalee, Florida, is accused of throwing an eight-inch-long kitchen knife at her boyfriend last week after he purposely passed gas in her face as he walked by her."

 

How tall is he? Or how short is she?

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"Deborah Ann Burns, from Immokalee, Florida, is accused of throwing an eight-inch-long kitchen knife at her boyfriend last week after he purposely passed gas in her face as he walked by her."

 

How tall is he? Or how short is she?

 

Have you heard about such things as chairs?

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Guest jasondonervan

 

"Deborah Ann Burns, from Immokalee, Florida, is accused of throwing an eight-inch-long kitchen knife at her boyfriend last week after he purposely passed gas in her face as he walked by her."

 

How tall is he? Or how short is she?

 

Have you heard about such things as chairs?

 

 

Nope, never :emb:

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Guest Iain C

Was catching the train from Doncaster to London yesterday, sitting in an aisle seat. Nice trains those Hull trains btw, had air conditioning which was a luxury touch on one of the hottest days of the year. Anyway, back to the story. So I'm sat in this aisle seat. On the other side of the aisle are four old fuckers. Two couples. Each a man and a woman. We get to Stevenage. One of the couples gets off. Standard. Are you folllowing me? So now there's just this one couple on the other side of the aisle. One man, one woman. Old fuckers. Maybe 70. Probably not 80. Now if you've ever got the east coast main line into King's Cross, you'll know that just before the station there's this tunnel. This long tunnel. Right before the station. And a lot of people, if they know this route, they'll stand up when they're in the tunnel and start gathering their stuff together. Because they figure, they're more or less at King's Cross. Let's beat the rush, they figure, let's get our stuff together now, in the tunnel, so we won't have to faff around when we reach King's Cross. Fair enough, I say. Me, I don't bother. Couple of extra minutes doesn't mean too much to my journey, and I even like to collect my thoughts before I collect my baggage, if you know what I mean. Just sit there for a minute or two while things untangle themselves around me. So I don't bother. But these old fuckers, we go into the tunnel and there they are. Standing up. Collecting their bags. I was surprised to be honest because they seemed a little frail, more like people who'd wait, like me, than people who'd be using that tunnel time to rush around and get off the train as early as possible. So that surprised me, that was the first thing that surprised me. Second thing was, as they got up, naturally they got closer to me because now they're stood in the aisle. And me, well, something you should know is that my sense of smell isn't that strong. I've been smoking cigarettes for about 12 or 13 years, so I guess I don't smell so well on account of that. But now they're a little closer to me, stood in the aisle, and I get a whiff off them. And they smell a bit like farts. But I allow it because they're old and they've earned their right to smell. But then, and this is where the story gets good, this old man - he's got his arms all in the overhead luggage rack, getting his bags together and all that. To this day - well it only happened yesterday - I remember his trousers. They were a kind of midnight blue, darker than navy but definitely blue. Rather loose. And at this point, this old man, I can't see his arse - not really - it's too flat. But I know it's there, what arse he has, in these blue trousers. That's when I heard it, as he was rummaging around in the luggage rack. The man farted. And bear in mind I'm sitting in the aisle seat, he's stood in the aisle, his arse is pointing at me, and I hear him fart. Then I smell it. So this old guy just farted in my face. But I didn't mind, he's an old guy, he probably farts a lot, there are more important things to be concerned about, so I forgot all about it and got on with my life.

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Was catching the train from Doncaster to London yesterday, sitting in an aisle seat. Nice trains those Hull trains btw, had air conditioning which was a luxury touch on one of the hottest days of the year. Anyway, back to the story. So I'm sat in this aisle seat. On the other side of the aisle are four old fuckers. Two couples. Each a man and a woman. We get to Stevenage. One of the couples gets off. Standard. Are you folllowing me? So now there's just this one couple on the other side of the aisle. One man, one woman. Old fuckers. Maybe 70. Probably not 80. Now if you've ever got the east coast main line into King's Cross, you'll know that just before the station there's this tunnel. This long tunnel. Right before the station. And a lot of people, if they know this route, they'll stand up when they're in the tunnel and start gathering their stuff together. Because they figure, they're more or less at King's Cross. Let's beat the rush, they figure, let's get our stuff together now, in the tunnel, so we won't have to faff around when we reach King's Cross. Fair enough, I say. Me, I don't bother. Couple of extra minutes doesn't mean too much to my journey, and I even like to collect my thoughts before I collect my baggage, if you know what I mean. Just sit there for a minute or two while things untangle themselves around me. So I don't bother. But these old fuckers, we go into the tunnel and there they are. Standing up. Collecting their bags. I was surprised to be honest because they seemed a little frail, more like people who'd wait, like me, than people who'd be using that tunnel time to rush around and get off the train as early as possible. So that surprised me, that was the first thing that surprised me. Second thing was, as they got up, naturally they got closer to me because now they're stood in the aisle. And me, well, something you should know is that my sense of smell isn't that strong. I've been smoking cigarettes for about 12 or 13 years, so I guess I don't smell so well on account of that. But now they're a little closer to me, stood in the aisle, and I get a whiff off them. And they smell a bit like farts. But I allow it because they're old and they've earned their right to smell. But then, and this is where the story gets good, this old man - he's got his arms all in the overhead luggage rack, getting his bags together and all that. To this day - well it only happened yesterday - I remember his trousers. They were a kind of midnight blue, darker than navy but definitely blue. Rather loose. And at this point, this old man, I can't see his arse - not really - it's too flat. But I know it's there, what arse he has, in these blue trousers. That's when I heard it, as he was rummaging around in the luggage rack. The man farted. And bear in mind I'm sitting in the aisle seat, he's stood in the aisle, his arse is pointing at me, and I hear him fart. Then I smell it. So this old guy just farted in my face. But I didn't mind, he's an old guy, he probably farts a lot, there are more important things to be concerned about, so I forgot all about it and got on with my life.

 

And the moral of that story is...

 

 

never bother reading Iain C's posts :emotawesomepm9:

 

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There is something seriously wrong with Florida.

 

yeah. and oddly enough, the brasilian guy who was selling 2 girls 1 cup had a distro out of florida. he also owned a series of brasilian films known as 'fart brasil'

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There is something seriously wrong with Florida.

 

You could not distinguish excerpts from this news story and a Butthole Surfers lyric easily, that's all I'll say.

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There is something seriously wrong with Florida.

 

yeah. and oddly enough, the brasilian guy who was selling 2 girls 1 cup had a distro out of florida. he also owned a series of brasilian films known as 'fart brasil'

 

Filho da puta!

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I got nothing. perfectly reasonable behaviour IMO.

I have to agree with this.

 

Especially if she believed the fart to be lethal.

 

 

That's a good insight there.

 

Lethal farts can be lethal, and you are perfectly within your rights to defend yourself.

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