Story Time

Back Alley Gator

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Since this story thread has some very funny ones in here and that has naturally turned into a bit of a jokes thread, I figured I'd provide a gift idea for all you parents that are in the corporate world and yet have children that, naturally, want to "be like Mommy or Daddy"...
13245

Sorry I joined late, can you go over what I missed at the beginning?

Oh...yea. Sorry. I was on mute.
 

cover2

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My granddaddy had a friend that was in the funeral business. Mr. Charles was an avid deer hunter and had a nice lease off of the Ochlockonee River south of Lake Talquin. Each season they'd take several nice deer. He was also quite the prankster. His partner, Mr. Bert, wasn't much of an outdoorsman and had extremely poor vision. For some reason, Mr. Bert decided he wanted to kill a deer and got lined up to go one Saturday. The night before, Mr. Charles took a goat he bought from a local farmer and tied him up in some brush out in front of the stand he would put Mr. Bert in. To make things even better, he duct-taped a set of deer horns on the goat. Before daylight the next morning, he took Mr. Bert to the stand. On the way, he told him to be ready because they'd been seeing a good buck in that stand, but couldn't get a clean shot. After getting Mr. Bert situated, Mr. Charles rushed back to camp and waited with the other hunters for a shot. Not long after daylight, a shot rang out. The hunters jumped in their trucks and rushed to Mr. Bert's stand. When they got there, they found Mr. Bert standing over his "deer!" The only words Mr. Bert could speak was "You sons of b*****s!" He stayed mad as hell for a while, but sometime after was able to turn the story in his favor as a "half blind guy making a one shot kill" when his buddies would F with him! The poor goat didn't go to waste and made a fine barbecue at the camp that evening.
 
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cover2

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This farmer moved his wife and young son across the state to another farm he purchased after selling his old one. They'd been at the new farm for about a month, but still didn't know hardly anybody in the new community. One day while the farmer was plowing in a field behind the house, his young son came running up and said that Mama had gotten a call from the preacher who was on his way out for a welcome visit. When asked what church the preacher was from, the boy said Mama forgot to ask, but sent him to ask his father what he could do to help Mama when the preacher got there since the farmer wouldn't be finished plowing until dark. The farmer told his son if the preacher was Episcopal he was to hide the bottle of whiskey they kept in the kitchen cabinet under the bed. If the preacher was Methodist, he was to take Mama's purse with the money out to the barn and hide it in the hayloft. If the preacher was Presbyterian, he was to keep him away from the refrigerator and all of their food. He asked the boy if he thought he could do these things if needed. "Yessir!" the boy replied. "But Dad, what should I do if the preacher is Baptist?" The farmer said "Son, he turns out to be Baptist, you sit in your mama's lap and you don't get up until he leaves!"
 

cover2

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An old acquaintance of mine was friends with a local pharmacist and went home with him somewhere around Leesburg over the holidays one year to duck hunt. While staying with the pharmacist's family, his grandfather told a hunting story from when the pharmacist was young and just starting to hunt ducks. Seems that they got on the water before daylight and put out their decoy spreads, parked the boat in the bull rushes, and waited for the ducks to come. Just about time for day to start breaking, another boat with shiner fishermen pulled right into the middle of the decoy spread, dropped anchor, and started fishing. Granddad and Dad whistled and waved their arms to try and get the fishermen's attention so that they would move on, but the fishermen ignored them and kept on fishing, their giant corks floating among the decoys. "What're we gonna do Grandpa?" the pharmacist asked. "Son, I want you to take your shotgun and aim at one of those stoppers in front of the boat and when I tell you, I want you to shoot it!" said Grandpa. "But isn't that dangerous?" asked the boy. "Never you mind, just shoot when I tell you!" In a minute or so, Grandpa told the boy to take aim. A few seconds later came the command to fire. KABLOOM went the gun, blasting one of the fishermen's stopper out of the water! With that, Grandpa stood up and yelled "Good Lord Boy, stop playing with that gun and put it down before you kill somebody!" A split second later, the fishermen weighed anchor and hauled @ss. And the duck hunt proceeded without further incident!
 

Okeechobee Joe

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There was a court case that concerned a farmer who had filed for medical insurance payment after he had run into some cows that had wandered out in the middle of a country highway and suffered a whiplash neck injury. The insurance company was refusing to pay and the farmer had taken them to court in a dispute to force them to pay his hospital bill. In court that day the insurance company's lawyer was badgering the old farmer. The attorney asked the old farmer, "Is it true that at the accident scene that your exact words were 'I'm doing fine' when you were asked how you were doing?"

The farmer said, "That's right but let me explain. I was coming over a hill" when he was abruptly interrupted by the lawyer. The lawyer said "Look, I don't care whether you were coming over a hill or you were driving on flat land, all I want to know is did you say you were fine when you were asked how you were doing at the scene of the accident.. I have proof that is what you told the highway patrolman because it's in his report. Now just answer my question."

Well, the old farmer was getting exasperated. He put his head down, rubbed his sore neck, and proclaimed in a louder voice, "Now hear me out just a minute. I was coming over a hill and I couldn't stop in time to avoid hitting the cows. I got out of my car to see what had happened. It was in the early hours of the morning, out in the middle of nowhere. The scene was a mess with injured cattle and debris strewn everywhere. Shortly after that a highway patrolman came speeding to the scene with blue lights flashing and sirens going full blast. The patrolman slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the patrol car. He immediately saw this cow that was severely injured and was staggering around loudly mooing in obvious pain. The patrolman planted his feet in a wide two point stance, whipped out his pistol, held it with two hands and shot the poor cow right between the eyes. The cow let out one last groan and immediately dropped dead right there on the side of the road in front of me and the highway patrolman."

"The patrolman was obviously rattled and agitated by what had happened. He next pointed the gun at me, looked me in the eye and shouted, ' Now you, you sunavabitch, how in the hell are you doing.' I raised my hands above my head and said 'Me? Why I'm doing fine sir. "
 
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cover2

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The teacher was explaining about stories with morals to her class. She then asked the students to take a moment and think of a story or personal event they might know that had a moral to it and then perhaps share it with the class. Susie went first and told about her aunt who had a beautiful song bird in a cage on her porch that she loved to listen to. One day, she saw two other birds just like it in the bushes next to the porch. She thought that if she opened the cage that the other two birds would fly in the cage and she could quickly shut the door and have them all. But when she opened the cage door, her bird flew away never to be seen again. The moral: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!

Billy was next and told about a farmer who sold bitties. The farmer had eight eggs waiting to hatch and he took money for the "future" chickens from a lady customer and promptly spent it. Unfortunately, none of the eggs hatched and he got in trouble with the customer. The moral: don't count your chickens before they hatch!

"Those were two great examples of stories with morals" said the teacher. "Does anyone have one more they can share?" In the back of the room little Johnny was about to bust a spring to get chosen. Against her better judgement, she asked Johnny to share his story. After all, how could he possibly mess this up? Little Johnny started by telling about his Uncle Mike that went to Vietnam. He went on to tell about his uncle going on a mission in a helicopter and it getting shot down on the edge of a jungle that was overrun by the Viet Cong. All the crew was killed in the crash except Uncle Mike and all he could salvage from the wreckage was a pistol with five bullets, a pocket knife, and two cases of beer. In the distance, Uncle Mike could see about 200 VC heading toward him. The first thing he did was drink one case of beer. Then he took the pistol and charged toward the enemy. He shot and killed five with the bullets and then pistol-whipped to death seventy more until the pistol broke into a bunch of pieces. He then pulled out the pocket knife and then killed seventy-five until the blade broke. He stopped just long enough to drink the other case of beer. Then he waded into the remaining VC and killed them all with his bare hands. The end!

The teacher said "Johnny, that was quite a story, but you didn't tell us the moral. Could you tell the class what the moral of your story was?" "Oh yeah," said Johnny. "The moral of the story is: don't f**k with Uncle Mike when he's been drinkin!'"
 
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stephenPE

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My granddaddy had a friend that was in the funeral business. Mr. Charles was an avid deer hunter and had a nice lease off of the Ochlockonee River south of Lake Talquin.
My dad bought an old river house on the Ochlockonee River from our uncle. It was just past Sopchoppy and on a bend. The last house going up river. We had some great times there. Panacea had a restaurant called the Coastal and it was an old real southern/seafood place. We ate lots of fish and shrimp there. Fished Bald Point for some great trout and redfish. Would drive to Carrabelle for that little stretch of beach. good times.
 

Zambo

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Back in the early 90s, before cell phones and internet, my buddy Greg got his car stolen from his house in Jax. His wife's purse was in the car with some credit cards. He reported it to the police but they didn't sound like they were going to do very much to recover the car.

So he called up the credit card companies to cancel the cards. While he was on the phone with them, he asked them about any recent purchases. He took all the purchases made on the cards over the last two days and wrote down the addresses of each business. Most of them were gas stations and convenience stores. With no google maps handy, he broke out a road atlas and some street maps and started plotting out where all these places were. All of them were near I-95 heading north, then a few more to the west of 95 along another highway, and finally a few close together is some small hick town in North Carolina.

He called 411 and got the number for the sheriff in that county and passed on to him all this information and told him what his car looked like. The sheriff put out a BOLO for the car. Later that afternoon the sheriff called Greg back and told him they had recovered the car intact and arrested the thieves. I thought that was pretty cool.
 

Zambo

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This is a short story about a child in a grocery store in say 1962. Child sees a water fountain with a "Coloreds Only" sign on it. He wonders why he can't get a drink from that fountain. Child is say 10.
 

Zambo

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I have recently made one of the biggest mistakes in my life, and I offer my story to you, that you may learn from my error. It all started, as many things do, with me having trouble ****ting.

No, I was not constipated. This was not a regularity problem but a matter of technique. It seems my ass-hair had grown to such a length that tiny balls of **** were constantly getting tied up in the matted jungle between my ass-cheeks. It led to much frustration, with me knowing that I still had something to drop, but unable to shake the tenacious turd loose from its butt hair dwelling place. Eventually I would have to do one of two things: either reach down with some paper and try to pinch off the lingering loaf (which required careful precision to avoid smearing the creature all over my rear, especially since I had no way of seeing what I was doing) or just go for broke, start wiping, and hope that I could remove all the leftover fecal matter before the toilet paper reached its ‘Can't-Be-Flushed’ threshold.

As I was contemplating this problem, I had what seemed at the time to be a brilliant idea. “Hey, this is my butt and my butt-hair, right? So why don't I just eliminate all the hair all together, and then my crap will flow out like beer from a keg!" I said to myself. It is a statement that will go down in history with a lot of other regretted statements, things like "How many Indians could there be?" said by General Custer. "Looks like a good day for a drive!" by JFK, or "There! America On-Line now has complete Usenet access!" by some idiot system tech. Such was my anal shaving idea.

I performed the operation that night, with a cheap disposable razor and a towel to sit on. Starting from the bottom, and shaving from the crack to the cheeks, I began the arduous process of ridding my ass of hair. Occasionally, I would have to clean the razor of accumulated hair and miscellaneous slime, which I did by wiping it on the towel. Slowly, my twin mounds and the between-ravine began to resemble the hairless cheeks of a newborn baby. Finally, I wiped the razor one last time, and surveyed my work. The towel was covered with a pile of hair. My ass was smooth as ivory. I smiled; satisfied, thinking my troubles were over.

Little did I know?

I now have a great respect for anal-hair. Like everything in this world God created, it has its mighty purpose in existence. It was only after I had removed it that I started to learn how much I had been taking it for granted. For one, it provides friction. I learned this the next day, when I walked out into the sun heading for class. After climbing two flights of stairs and starting to sweat, I started to notice something unpleasant. The sweat was accumulating in my crack, and was causing the unpleasant sensation of my two ass-cheeks sliding past each other with every step. I thought about going to the bathroom and wiping it off, but had to get to class. Eventually, I thought, it would dry.

Unfortunately, it did dry, but only after mingling with the microscopic ****- molecules lingering around my brown starfish. When I stood up after class, my cheeks were stuck together with a slimy sticky ****/sweat combination. As I made my way back to my dorm, it started to itch. And I mean it itch! Felt like a swarm of ants was making its way up and down my crack. Fighting to keep from jamming my hand down there and scratching away, I rushed back to the dorm.

Unfortunately again, this exertion caused me to sweat, and when I finally reached my room, my cheeks were sliding back and forth against each other like a pair of horny cane-toads. I quickly dropped my pants, and attempted to dry my ass off by sticking it in front of a fan and spreading my cheeks. As I pulled the two mounds of flesh apart, a horrible stench burst free and filled the room. Every dog within a 4-block radius started to howl. I had it worst of all, as the ripe aroma of festering ****/sweat went into the fan and blew back into my face. I fought to keep from heaving. And as I sat there, fighting vomit, my ass cheeks spread and dripping, with the concentrated aroma of my body odor mixed with the tangy smell of my own **** blowing right into my face, I had only one thought: "It will be like this until the hair grows back. Weeks."

Later on, trying to deal as best I could, wiping my ass at every opportunity, I discovered another wonderful use for ass-hair, ventilation. I attempted to launch a fart, only to have it get stuck between my ass-cheeks. Apparently, with no hair, the two pink twins can get vacuum-sealed together, and the result was a frustrating fart that slid up and down between my cheeks like a lost gerbil.

As if that wasn't enough, I am now enduring further torture. As anyone who has ever shaved anything knows, when hair is first growing back in, it comes in as stubble. Imagine your ass having the texture of a Brillo pad. Well, that’s what I am dealing with now. It is a hellish torture, and there are many times when I just look out the window and contemplate why I shouldn't just jump out and get it all over with in one fleshy splat, rather than endure this constant agony.

All I can say is friends don’t shave your ass hair!
 

Back Alley Gator

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I really wish I could like that story more than once. No...I never shaved my ass hair, but I completely understand the logic that led you where it did. I have considered that route on occasion too. I will heed your warning. Now, heed mine: Do not try those nifty looking cylindrical shaped nose hair trimmers.
 

Zambo

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:lol: It was a cut and paste from somewhere, I never shaved my ass hair.
 

Back Alley Gator

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:lol: It was a cut and paste from somewhere, I never shaved my ass hair.

Its okay Zambo. This is a non-judgement zone. You're in the tree of trust. Its a safe space where you can discuss your ass shaving fetish openly. ;)
 

cover2

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When I was about 12 or so, I decided I needed a motorcycle. Of course when I asked my granddaddy about one it was out of the question. No matter how hard I pleaded, using the need for the motorcycle as a necessary conveyance for checking irrigation, fields, and barns on the farm and pledging to use my summer wages to pay for it, the answer remained the same. I'd let it rest a day or two then try again, but again the result was the same...no motorcycle, too dangerous, you might kill yourself. My dreams of the yellow Suzuki and a career on the dirt circuit were waning.

A week later on Saturday, I loaded up with my granddaddy and his good friend Mr. Omar to take a load of bright tobacco to the auction in Thomasville. We left home before daylight and I sat in the middle of the cab in the big panel truck, still moping about my motorcycle prospects. About halfway to the auction, my granddaddy told Mr. Omar that "my grand boy wants a motorcycle and what did he think about it?" My eyes lit up! It was sounding like Mr. Omar might be my salvation since he was widely regarded as a man of great intelligence, a good heart, and a love for kids. Maybe the clouds were lifting!

"Well Jimbo, my middle boy put in for a motorcycle when he was about your age" said Mr. Omar. "He had all kinda good reasons that we needed one, for the farm and what not." Man, this was starting to sound good! "Well, here's what I told him...I said boy, take the tall ladder and put it up to the Eve on the cow barn. Get the wheelbarrow and roll it to the bottom of the ladder. Then, get a length of good rope out of the barn, tie it to the wheelbarrow, climb the ladder with the rope, pull the wheelbarrow up to the pitch of the roof, hold it steady and then call for me. My boy asked me 'Daddy, what are you going to do then?' I told him that I would climb up on the roof with him and hold the wheelbarrow steady until he could get in, then I'd give it a shove and let him ride it off of the roof! 'But Daddy, I'll break my neck and get killed!' Probably so, Boy, but at least I won't be out of the cost of a motorcycle!" It was at that moment my dream officially died. They had conspired against me. I never did get a motorcycle and years later I can chuckle about the whole affair knowing that I was probably spared a bunch of cuts, bruises, and broken bones if not my life. Whether we want to admit it or not, the old folks often know us better than we know ourselves!
 

deuce

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Not my story.....

My night began as any other normal weekday night. Come home, fix dinner, played with the kids. I then had the thought that would ring painfully in my mind for the next few hours: Maybe I should pull the wax out of the medicine cabinet. So I headed to the site of my demise—the bathroom. It was one of those cold wax kits. No melting a clump of hot wax, you just rub the strips together in your hand and then they get warm and you peel them apart press it to your leg (or wherever else) and hair comes right off. No muss, no fuss. How hard can it be? I mean I’m no girly girl but I am mechanically inclined enough that I can figure it out. *YA THINK!!!*

So I pull one of the thin strips out. It’s two strips facing each other stuck together. Instead of rubbing them together, I get out the hair dryer and heat it to 1000 degrees. Cold wax my rear end (Oh how this phrase haunts me!) I lay the strip across my thigh. Hold the skin around it tight and pull. OK so it wasn’t the best feeling, but it wasn’t too bad. I can do this! Hair removal no longer eludes me! I am She-ra, fighter of all wayward body hair and smooth skin extraordinaire.

With my next wax strip I move north. After checking on the kids I sneak back into the bathroom, for the ultimate hair fighting championship. I drop my panties and place one foot on the toilet. Using the same procedure I apply the was strip across the right side of bikini line, covering the right half of my vagina and stretching down to the inside of my butt cheek (Yes, it was a long strip) I inhale deeply and brace myself. RRRRIIIPPP!!!!


I’m blind!!! Blinded from pain!!!!…OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!


Vision returning, I notice that I’ve only managed to pull off half of the strip. S&%T!!! Another deep breath and RRIIPP. Everything is swirly and spotted. Do I hear crashing drums??? OK, back to normal. I want to see my trophy—a wax-covered strip with my hairy pelt, that has caused me so much pain, sticking to it. I want to revel in the glory that is my triumph over body hair. I hold up the strip! There’s no hair on it. Where is the hair?

WHERE IS THE WAX???

Slowly I ease my head down, foot still perched on the toilet. I see the hair…The hair that should be on the strip. I touch. I am touching wax. S&%T I run my fingers over the most sensitive part of my body, which is now covered in cold wax and matted hair. Then I make the next BIG mistake……………….remember my foot is still propped up on the toilet. I know I need to do something. So I put my foot down. DAMN!!!!!!!! I hear the slamming of the cell door. Vagina? Sealed shut. Butt?? Sealed shut.

I penguin walk around the bathroom trying to figure out what to do and think to myself, ‘Please don’t let me get the urge to poop. My head may pop off’ Hot water!! Hot water melts wax!! I’ll run the hottest water I can stand into the bathtub, get in, immerse the wax covered bits and the wax should melt and I can gently wipe it off right??? *WRONG!!!!!!!*I get in the tub—the water is slightly hotter than then that used to torture prisoners of war or sterilize surgical equipment—I sit. Now, the only thing worse that having your nether businesses glued together is having them glued together and then glued to the bottom of the tub. In scalding hot water. Which, by the way, doesn’t melt cold wax.

So now I’m stuck to the bottom of the tub!! God bless the man that convinced me I should have a phone in the bathroom!!!!! I call my friend thinking surely she’s waxed before and has some secret of how to get me undone. It’s a very good conversation starter ‘So, my butt and who-ha are stuck to the bottom of the tub!’ There is a slight pause. She doesn’t have a secret trick but does try to hide the laughter from me. She wants to know exactly where the wax is located on bottom. ‘Are we talking cheeks or hole or what?’

She’s laughing out loud by now…I can hear her. I give her the rundown and she suggests I call the number on the side of the box. YEAH!!!!! Right!! I should be the joke of someone else’s night. While we go through various solutions, I resort to scraping the wax off with a razor. Nothing feels better than to have your girlie goodies, covered in hot wax, glued shut, stuck to the tub in super hot water and then dry shaving the sticky wax off!! By now the brain is not working, dignity has taken a major hike and I slip into glazed donut land. My friend is still talking with me and my hand reaches towards the saving grace….the lotion they give you to remove the excess wax. What do I really have to lose at this point? I rub some on and OH MY GOD!!!!!!! The scream probably woke the kids, scared the dickens out of my friend, but I really don’t care. ‘IT WORKS!! It works!! I get a hearty congratulation from my friend and she hangs up. I successfully remove the remainder of the wax and then notice to my grief and despair…………………………….

THE HAIR IS STILL THERE…………………..ALL OF IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.

So I shaved it off. Heck, I’m numb at this point. Next week I’m going to try hair color……”
 

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