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Most disgusting thing you've ever done

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As a doctor in training and a natural pedant, I find it a little unlikely that the shock caused your osteophytic growth. More likely that it was coincidence or inflammation caused by the shock brought the growth to light. The nervous pathway from ring finger to ninth vertebrae is convoluted to say the least and is certainly not absolute.

yeah, exactly, that's why other doctors didn't quite agree with that doctor's theory or found it quite less likely...but it was just a theory of his so...

that's why i used "could lead straight to the ninth vertebra" and "that could have plausibly caused the ossification".

I'm glad it got sorted for you though. Constant back pain is NO fun at all.

yeah, thanks. :) the pain was killing me, man....i don't wish that kind of thing to anyone.....

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I was trying to say that the doctor who said that to you was probably wrong, rather than saying you were a douche for repeating it, if you see what I mean!

I didn't mean to be rude :tup:

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I was trying to say that the doctor who said that to you was probably wrong, rather than saying you were a douche for repeating it, if you see what I mean!

I didn't mean to be rude :tup:

i know what you were trying to say, man, it's ok. forum posts really can't convey someone's tone sometimes...this is an example, hehe :)

so don't worry, i didn't misunderstand and you weren't rude. :tup::)

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I was trying to say that the doctor who said that to you was probably wrong, rather than saying you were a douche for repeating it, if you see what I mean!

I didn't mean to be rude :tup:

Nice recovery Andy

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Nice recovery James :tup:
Nice recovery Andy

boys, stop "recovering" off me and....no, wait.....that sounded too dirty... :mock:

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boys, stop "recovering" off me and....no, wait..... :mock:

We have little control over who we cover with our...err...recovery. As Englishmen, we are prone to foreign based gaffes :grin:

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Mine wasn't as bad as yours.

Perhaps, but your two-stage follow-up was a mess.

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I recovered to a more advantageous/face saving position than you. Be honest.

i would have replied with "How appropriate. You fight like a cow!" :D

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This conversation is awful. You are awful, Andy. Can't we all get along in our pedantry?

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I remember writing all those insults down on paper so I could win that segment...good game:tup: Come to think of it, I often write things down on paper to help me. The last time was playing Fallout 3. I mapped out the subway system. Is it just me, or does anyone else do this?!

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I remember writing all those insults down on paper so I could win that segment...good game:tup: Come to think of it, I often write things down on paper to help me. The last time was playing Fallout 3. I mapped out the subway system. Is it just me, or does anyone else do this?!

i always do that when it comes to games like that. :) it kinda makes it...even more adventurous, i don't know...like you're extending the game experience and the "puzzle" or that part of the game into reality a bit more...i did that with monkey island, broken sword, still life....hmm...those are the ones i can think of at the moment.

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Here's a little story that isn't disgusting (or as disgusting as some of the others, at least) but it certainly is weird. Note: I was about 17 (maybe younger) and a student when this happened. Anyway...

I went over to a friend's house one evening, it was just the three of us. It was very chilled out and well, dull, to be honest. We all pondered what to do with the evening, watch a film? score some pot? go out and do something else? (We were very imaginative.) but it was "one of those nights" and nobody really felt like doing anything at all. We tried to get the evening started by having a little drink from my friend's parent's "liquor cabinet" (yes, they really had one), but of course we could only take a tiny amount, so as not to arouse their suspicion. After that pointless exercise, we still weren't really feeling up to doing anything, so we all decided to call it an early night and go home.

Now, when I say "little drink", I SWEAR it was nothing more than a small glass of red wine and a shot or two of vodka. That was it. Absolutely nothing more than that, and possibly less. I felt perfectly sober leaving my friend's house. I remember lamenting how it was such a low-key, boring evening as I began the 20 minute walk to my house. Totally unremarkable, except at some early point in my journey this happens...

The next thing I know I'm lying in the street, in a pool of my own vomit. I kid ye not. I was outside a club on a main road, some 15 minutes from my friend's house, SEVERAL HOURS LATER. And I was totally wasted. What the fuck?

A guy was kneeling over me and he said, "don't worry mate, I've just called you an ambulance". I was so absolutely wasted and confused, and still coming around, that I didn't absolutely understand what the words coming out of his mouth meant, but some basic inner-caveman was still functioning and made the connection: Ambulance = authorities = police = bad, even if I couldn't completely comprehend what an ambulance actually was.

Of course, reading this now I'm thinking "ambulance = good, you idiot!", but I was underage and drunk and it made sense at the time to avoid any parental involvement with the authorities due to any illicit behaviour. At least, that was the logic.

I somehow got myself up and said, "I'm fine!", or probably, "Mrhf Fnne!" and stumbled on homeward. (Thinking back, I've no idea what type of person would stumble across an unconscious teenager in the street, call an ambulance, then when they awake and were still clearly out of it, just let them stumble off. Weird.)

Anyways, I remember being shocked at how difficult walking had become. I'd been drunk before, but this was something else. I struggled for what seemed like an age, and only made a tiny amount of progress. I realised that my brave attempt at not arousing anyone's suspicion was a total lost cause. There was no way I was going to make the final leg of journey home (all 10 minute's worth) by myself. I needed help.

I knew there was a phone box just a bit further on (this was before the mass adoption of mobile phones, peeps!), and somehow managed to not only make it, but to also operate the phone, remember my phone number, wake my father, describe my current location and ask him to come pick me up. I have no idea how I did that. But like the excellent dad he is, he was there a few minutes later, no questions asked. I don't think he even asked any questions when I got into his car either, such is my Dad's way, although I'm sure I got an odd look.

The next morning I woke up and, apart from finding a surprisingly high amount of foliage in my hair, felt absolutely fine. I spoke to my friends on the phone, they'd been fine, and were as incredulous about what happened as I was.

To this day I still have no idea what happened, why it happened, or what I did during those lost hours. Very freaky!

Edited by ThunderPeel2001

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This isn't necessarily anything disgusting I have done, per se, but it is pretty disgusting and it happened to me and has to this day left me a little broken. :deranged:

So ok, this happened in Belgrade, smack in the middle of the embargo twelveish years ago. I was in fifth or seventh grade, or somewhere in between. The country was under sanctions and the economy was shot and no one had any money, and no one bought anything—which was easy to do because stores didn't sell anything. Shelves everywhere were empty. People queued up for bread and watered down milk on a daily basis, if the supplies were any kind of steady at all. A banana cost as much as a month's pension, and the pensions were slipping to the point where they were months late and the government was forced to justify time and again why this was so on their own, national, propaganda TV. Those who earned any kind of money had to change it into Deutsche Marks before the end of the day because the inflation was so astronomical that the Dinar would not be worth anything the following day.

Now, this long-winded introduction sets the scene not only for the disgusting bit (which on its own is disgusting enough), but also for the vignette of misery that went along with it.

For all their shopping needs and any kinds of small manufactured things, people turned to the flea markets. The flea markets seldom sold what one would expect flea markets to sell. Instead they sold "grey market goods"—new, cheap, usually Chinese-produced small appliances and clothing and pirated CDs that were smuggled into the country god knows how.

This one time, I bought a pair of shoes. Generally I am a picky shoe shopper and I really thought I'd like these. They were skater-type shoes, cardboardy in color, and the material felt like cardboard too. It was some sort of synthetic pressed fiber, like something between paper and felt and tyvek (though not nearly as resilient as tyvek). They had the same color rubber bottom and a Prussian blue stripe between, going all around the sole. The first day I wore them to school I somehow spilled permanent turquoise ink all over them, and wondered why it is I couldn't have nice things.

I broke the shoes in completely in a couple of days. In a few weeks the sole had collapsed and somehow flattened out. The lattice that gave the sole its thickness was actually not sturdy enough to support anything and it folded onto itself. The insole unglued from the rest of the shoe and would pull out when I would take the shoes off. The cardboardy top was starting to fray and get a little fuzzy in places. Buying new shoes so soon after I got these was really not an option, what with the destituteness. So I was stuck with these.

And then the shoes acquired tenants. It was the kind of roach-like bug that in Serbia we called "buba-Rus", which means "Russian bug" (the standard cockroach we call "bubašvaba" which basically means "German bug" or more colloquially translated, "Kraut bug"). The Russian bugs are smaller than roaches and yellowish. At first I thought that the shoes were attracting the bugs. We left our shoes in an armoire in the bathroom and occasionally there were roaches in the vicinity, so I wasn't absolutely sure. But then I started noticing them around my feet at school. I stoically soldiered on, mortified of any social stigma that may befall me were this new trait of my shoes to be noticed by my peers. I would warily inspect the shoes every day before putting them on. For a while there I thought I was mostly free and probably imagining the whole connection between the shoes and the roaches.

And then one morning, all the fuckers finally hatched from within or whatever the fuck and pored out of the shoe as if they were shoveled out. So then I was all, what the fuckking fuck this aarragh! I'd rather wear outgrown winter boots to school, fuck me this shit is disgusting!

To this day I shake shoes out before I put them on.

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