Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: Ball on April 05, 2007, 05:51:26 PM
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woman survived a fall from a sixth floor balcony when a pile of poo broke her fall.
The lucky - or unlucky - escape happened when the woman was hanging out her laundry.
She suffered only slight injuries in the incident in Nanjing, China.
"She landed in a 20cm thick heap of excrement," the Kuaibao tabloid newspaper gleefully reported.
"Workers happened to be emptying the building's septic tank, which had not been tended for a long time, and had regularly blocked sewage pipes.
"She probably stretched out too far and fell."
The newspaper does not record the woman's reaction after realising what had saved her.
http://news.sky.com/skynews/article/0,,30200-1259120,00.html
LOL :rofl
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I gotta similar pOoP story.
An old friend of mine had a fulltime job driving a septic truck.He'd go around sucking out the waste in Porta-John's with this large hose and big tank.
One day his younger brother wanted to help out so off they went.On the first portable,he thought it would be better if he held the hose down the porta-krapper and his brother would turn on the pump.
Well,he turned it on....Blow instead of suck.I saw the aftermath..Talk about taking a walk on the "Brown side".
About a year later after a drinking binge,he choked on his own puke and died.
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If she was hanging out laundry while they were emptying a septic tank she wasn't the brightest crayon in the box to start wth.
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one of the guys who we jumped with when i went parachuting was nicknamed
"cesspool".
seems he landed in one on the first jump and that was that.
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My family moved a lot, as us three brothers grew up. We lived in half a dozen places in France, four in Canada, and three in the US.
At one point, two of us had to move from Toronto to Paris in a hurry, and crashed at some relatives' place. Briefly put, the mother of the family was a bitter blockhead.. bigotted and *****y. She knew, as everyone did, that we'd not be staying for more than a month or two, and yet couldn't help but be a real bastard to us, in ways only batty, battered old women can - case in point: she fed my cat rat poison.
I buried that cat the next night, in a plastic bag and carboard shoebox, while a big Husky halfbreed contended his territory from 15m out.. I couldn't even stay and have a thought for my cat. Throwing rocks at the beast would probably just have pissed it off, so I left promptly.
And she had justification, too. We stank up her basement. "What's that smell?", one of their little daughters asked. "It's the boys, my dear", she'd automatically answer.
Obviously, I was stripped of all chaff emotions and values. No pity or petty considerations were had, I wasn't just going to have a tit for tat revenge.. This ***** was going to be grilled to ashes by nothing less appropriate in retribution than her own bile.. I just needed to find how.
Luckily, fate would take care of that for me...
You see, the smell downstairs came not from our small room, but from another bigger stocking room where all the food, perishable and not, was kept, nice and tidy, packed from floor to ceiling, over about 600 square feet.
"The smell" came from a small aperture in one of its walls, one separating that room and another next to the outside garden, used for piano practice and hot summer afternoon naps, from the innards of the house, the water pipes, drainage pipes, and of course the poop tubes.
For a few months, probably, their excrements had leaked out of some underground break at the bottom of the partition, to the point that it shored up and leaked out through that food storage wall; #1, #2, tampons, periods, hangover spills, autogenetic flora and fauna.. you name it, it was floating in there.
We had, with the help of the now even more placid and cowardly heedless husband, to break the outside wall of the contaminated partition, and shovel all of it out, and across the piano room's floor, to buckets and any containers we found. It took about 4 or 5 hours.. and I can remember having trouble believing my nose even after a whole hour of digging the stuff - the smell was like standing in a furnace.
We filled the containers and made two trips to the local public dump in a rented truck... meanwhile the Baroness of BS was sitting on her fat ass, in the warm comfort of the house, distracting her daughters with compelling moralities on the whole affair.
A week later I found another place to stay for my brother and I; we promptly left.
On our way out, Her most proficient big bellybutton found Her way to our taxi cab just before it was leaving, for some token goodbye, or something. I had pulled down my window expecting someone else from the corner of my eye, and she must have gotten confused about something, because when our eyes met she just stood still.
I would have said something, but out of politeness, I held back from laughing my lungs out..
The look on her face: PWNED!! :D
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Huh??? That story makes no sense whatsoever.:huh
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:confused:
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Oh don't get me started!!!
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I must have missed something important from the story..
You had to haul bucketfuls of scheisse and somehow you think you got even with the lady?
:huh
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Ya did you miss something there in the story? It reads that she was miserable and killed your cat, but you got back at her by cleaning shat out of her basement while she sat around, then while parting you said nothing.
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I wrote it in a way that mimicked the **** flingin fest that, ironicaly enough, living around her, and the poop deluge both were like.. I guess it got in the way of clarity.
It is meant to read like one of those stories where a character spouts and prances full of pretention, then his pants gloriously burst, leaving him spouting and prancing with his pants down for a short moment.
She was a pompous ***** that I had to put up with at first, could barely resist from disembowling (but for the fact she was giving me a roof to stay under) second, and third, that I left with a clear conscience knowing that she's not worth my bile, and that I had clear conscience (yes, had a clear conscience that I had a clear conscience.. redundant to say, but that's what it was like).
Cleaning that **** up was proof for her to see that spinning her web of sticky BS all she wanted changed nothing to the fact that she was what she was, and I nothing like it.
I had no proof that she poisoned my cat, but neither me nor anyone who was around had any doubt. What goes around, comes around.. She was full of it figuratively, and fate made it so that she was so litteraly as well. What more could I ask for?
Saved by poop!
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Wow....the explanation for the story is even more confusing than the story itself!! The chit-fumes must have really messed moot up ;)
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big unbelievable wow
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I don't mean to punt this, but:
1) I've got no scat fetishes or anything like that.. The story is worth telling and remembering, to me, almost only by its freakness. The same way I would have told it if instead of poo, it was birds getting electrocuted by defective electrical cables on the roof and accumulating in a hole in the attic.
2) When you get into a argument with someone, it's never just one person doing it.. it takes two to make it happen. I have a strong stomach (lots of premedical dissecting etc since junior high), so the aspect of me having to deal with a person so full of it was what was most apparent to me.
Cleaning up was what it was firstmost. I was benevolent despite the unfairness I was dealt.
Bickering and other temper tantrums are never anyone else's responsibility than that of the person having them, and that's why from that point on, I just never bought into it - hence not even wasting another breath on her.
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sheesh, now tell doctor phil the reasons why you had to quickly bolt and live in such squalor.
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She survived the fall, but she was still in the cheese!
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Hmm.
I would have left as soon as I realized I was living next to a wall full of feces... I guess that if someone is doing me a "favor" but holding it against me, the favor they're doing me probably ought to be of decent quality. Putting me up in unsanitary conditions, blaming me for the smell, and expecting me to be grateful just wouldn't work with me. I'd pretty much say thanks for attempting to help but I think I should find another solution, and leave them to their mess.
It's sort of like illegal immigrants overloading US hospitals and causing other huge drains on public funding and social services, and then expecting me to be grateful that they're mowing lawns cheaply or keeping the price of avocados down... I'm sorry, the service they're providing just isn't worth the other pile of s**t that comes with the "favor" the illegal alien sympathizers seem to think they're doing for us.
Yea, I'd have thanked them for the wonderful "help" and let them fix their own cesspool, just because they were nasty about it. It's really tough to feel any gratitude for a favor that is grudgingly given.
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They were family, and I was 14 years old, busy with classes..
In fact that year was the period I referred to in the French Riots thread, living in a similar suburb where I'd get into fights once a week, or more. My little brother came home one day with a knife graze on his back.. he dealt as well as I did, came out of it all with barely scratches.
We'd get jumped on our way to birthday parties, by bored gangs of 19yo thugs, in the middle of subway stations..
Skinheads and similarly intolerant Maghrebians, classically bitter and/or stuck up French people, lots of beautiful girls, tough classes, good and bad and a few great teachers, more fisfights, vandalism (10ft. tall swastikas on neighbourhood walls), drug police raids on great little homely joints in the middle of lunchtime, burglary (in that same house) by class"mates", full ID checks from Police and Military every now and then when it's especially untimely or inconvenient, thousands of people stacked and packed together in HLM towers and tiny housing.. One time we were just biking in the street, near the school I went to, and a mob of hoodlums started throwing rocks at us, for no reason. This was all normal.
This all happened 24/7 during the nine months I spent there. This was the year where I decided that just being good had been an excuse to coast along just above the average in classes, and I went overtime into working to be first in everything I could.. grades and girls mostly, fistfights less and less once I settled with a serious girlfriend. It was my revenge on the absurdity of the whole suburb, of people of all races accusing and blaming the others of racism, of preaching in hip-hop and "white" politics values never respected in practice, etc.
The only way out was up, not complaining or accusing. That was my perspective.
My father worked for a french company's division in Toronto. Our parents divorced almost right after we moved to Toronto, and eventually it was too much for my father to support 3 hyperactive and hungry boys by himself. He was overqualified for his position at the U of Toronto (he went there instead of heading a solar observatory/telescope in the Canary Islands), but somehow never got a good-paying one.. It was just bad luck.
The one winter we arrived was the worst in a decade, or of the century.. I forget ('92 or so). The car we had broke down often, so my father would walk about 2 kilometers in the winter snow to do all the grocery shopping a few times a week. I went with him a few times, despite being conscious of the fact grown ups would think it odd that a father would have his 11 year old son carry so many groceries by hand through knee-high snow.
There were a lot of other things to go through, but it's enough to say that they were all of at least that much adversity.
My littlest brother (5yo at the time) couldnt get an adequate gift for his birthday.. we'd walk through ToysRus and my father could not say yes to anything but the tiniest, cheapest plastic toy car.
We subbed for luxury with homemade fun, like totally remodeling the house while he was at work, furniture and bedsheets and covers rearranged to make a huge cave through half of the house.. we had trips to Algonquin park for two weeks at a time.. peacefulness and beautiful scenery there and in similar trips that probably had a huge influence on us.
Anyway, we moved back because my father wanted us not to "grow up without our mother's influence". That uncle (from her family's side) offered to lodge us until my father found work.
During those nine months my father did everything he could to find a job close enough for us to spend equal amounts of time with both her and him, including, one night where Paris' taxicab drivers threw a surprise strike, a walk across all of Paris to get to an interview.. including some pretty dodgy parts like Boulogne and Champs Elysees at night.
Sure, it was hard. But it was easier than what we had in Toronto, and I had it in my mind that it was best to conquer adversity, that a situation so different from what I was used to was a great opportunity to learn from, to adapt to. I knew having pity for myself was no use.
If I could get through that, then I was one step closer to never having trouble from such difficulties again.
And it might seem strange to tell such seemingly private events in so much detail, but to me it's all like different lives, from centuries ago.
The whole poop thing was grotesque, and told like I did it might seem strange, but that was the intent.. an irreverential caricature.
At the time, I was too busy with homework and fistfights, and impassioned with girlfriends and music and graffiti to feel indisposed.
Whew :lol All this for a bit of poop humour :D
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And I did help them, not to get back at them, nor grudgingly, but because it was the right thing to do. There was an opportunity to help, and I didn't turn it down.
"Evilness", sadism, etc, are all foolish mistakes. At the time, I was starting to understand all that this implied.
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The only way to have possibly made that story work would to have done it like this:
"I was living with my relatives in France. One relative was this mean old woman. First she killed my cat, then she blamed the sewage stink from the basement on me. The icing on the cake was when I had to haul bucket loads of human poop, tampons, and bodily fluid out of the basement by hand for four hours. We rented a truck and delivered the best part of those frenchmen to the dump at the end of the day."
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Aquasheep, you're just not seeing the forest for the trees.
Not knowing better than telling the story like that, in hindsight, would mean I had not learned the lesson that thousands of poopieheads proved day-in, day-out in the wretched suburb that was Epinay-sur-Seine.
The lesson is to make your history, not to have history make you, i.e. not fall down to reciprocating the old tardlette's jaded bitterness.
It was a test of integrity, and I think I passed it well. I did not grudge her for poisoning my cat, as that would have served nothing.. I knew better though; that is one of the real values of the experience.
The purist is clean, the puritan cleans.