posted
Young Michael saw a fat man eating sweets today, and wanted to share the moment with everyone on TMO. So consider this a proxy-post.
quote: I saw a man eating a bag of jelly babies in the lift. he was quite a well stacked man, with really tight collars and cuffs and belt, making him look a bit like an inflated Jason Donovan. But mostly, like a GIANT jelly baby, tucking into smaller jelly babies. Some kind of BFGJB, Big Friendly Giant Jelly Baby, happily and clumsily cannibalising his little chums.
I’m not really sure how you’d like to respond to this. Perhaps you could tell a tale about a fat man eating sweets, I’m sure there are many, or you could give me a message to pass to mickey to let him know he is still loved and missed. Or you could make a nob gag (I don’t know how you make a nob gag. Stick something down the japseye maybe?) or post an amusing picture. It’s like Friday all over again.
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posted
My "Who?" looks like a thoughtful and affectionate post from an old pal pining for his sadly missed friend when it's placed in the bleak, cold desert of two and a half hours of TMO silence, broken only by a rather chilling comment from an American film star masquerading as a bloke with a beard who lives in the woods and a very unlikely story from Benny the Ball, vitriolically labelled "true story" in a cruel parody of Mikee's original tale.
Shame on you all, TMO. Shame on you.
(I'm still not sure who this Mikee is though.)
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posted
I was crushed by a fat woman on a bus from London to Aberdeen for FOURTEEN GODDAMN HOURS. It wasn't just slightly space-encroaching; we were both having to strain our whole bodies in opposite directions to prevent inappropriate contact. For example: our thighs rubbing together every time the bus went over a bump. My elbow touching her tit every time the bus turned a corner. It was fucking awful. Her flesh kept sliding under the armrest onto my seat. Every few seconds she'd sit up straight and, in the way you try to don a coat several sizes too small for you, hoist escaping flesh back onto her bones. She'd hug herself together for about ten seconds before parts of her started to landslide back onto my seat, where they'd remain for several moments until she began the process of flesh retrieval once more. Fourteen hours! You have no idea. Initially she had the window seat, but she got up to go to the toilet so many times that she ended up suggesting, by hand gestures, that we swap seats. So I spent the rest of the journey squashed against an armrest and a windowpane, with my feet wedged between her similarly obese shopping bags, and my body contorted and wrenched to one side like a tree lightning had just hit. Then there was an accident a few miles up the motorway, which meant the bus came to a standstill for AN HOUR AND A HALF, and then, after that panic-attack-inducing claustrophobic spell, DID A FIFTY-POINT TURN AND DROVE BACK THE WAY IT CAME. And at that point I thought to myself - and this is shameful! truly shameful! - I actually thought to myself, 'Someone had better have fucking died in that accident,' as if anything less - a driver with a broken jaw, a small child who lost a limb - would not warrant the extra few hours of fat-neighbour trauma I would have to endure as a result of the bus being redirected. Next time I look at a Hieronymus Bosch painting, I fully expect to see, beside the scenes of sentient trees molesting godforsaken women, and giant birds eating grown men whole, the depiction of a small boy being crushed to death by a fat lady-passenger on a Megabus.
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