Nothing Is Worse Than...
 

This is a phrase I hear all the time, and it always strikes me as being a bit silly. People say things like "there's nothing worse than making a sandwich and finding out your bread is moldy..." etc. and I think, well yes, in fact, there are millions of things worse than that. I mean, your teeth could fall out. Your dog could die. A meteor could fall on your house. That would be worse.

Anyone else ever notice that one and find it a little bit silly?

Well, in the interest of humor -- what else is there "nothing worse than?" You know, funny things. Not sad things. We all know there's always something that could be worse. :mad2:

I'll start.

There's nothing worse than walking barefoot through your house at 6 a.m. and stepping on something squishy.

Your turn.

these will be funnier if they've actually happened to you.

nothing worse than:

stepping in wet dog shit in the rain....barefoot. ...and then stepping in another pile with the other foot while hopping around, and slipping and putting your hand in yet another pile of wet loose rained on dog shit.

nothing.

How about when the cat presents you with a feathered trophy, but it's not quite dead yet, so it's frantically flying around inside your house, pooping and bleeding all over it's flight path, which includes running into you while you're trying to open the door to get it the eff out of your house? You finally shoo it out, only to find that the cat decided to drag it back in (now fully dead) lter the same day when you weren't looking. Good kitty.

Reminds me of this guy with his mouth clamped shut, swimming in sewage in Gaza.

Damn, those are both pretty good. I mean bad. :)

I get spat on, have to wade through lakes of piss, and deal with fecal decorative individuals on a regular basis.

My standards are different.

But okay, stepping on gum. That's gross. I really hate that.

Nothing's worse than being an introvert and finding yourself on the Baby's R Us PA system begging other shoppers to be on the lookout for your missing toddler, all because the customer service person doesn't get what you want when you come to them for help in searching the cavernous store for your missing kid, and they hand you the PA mic instead of initiating a search. I learned though, that the store manager comes out in a hurry and takes control of things when a customer gets on the PA system.

Nothing is worse than 18 month deployment to Iraq.

Nothing is worse than a level of flu where you vomit, blast a torrent of liquid shit into your underwear while vomiting, remove your underwear, vomit again and then blast a torrent of liquid shit at the opposite wall and floor.

trust me on this, just get in the shower and turn it on before round two begins.

oh dear god.

that's some funny shit.

It is much better to puke in the wastebasket and poop in the toilet. I know. When I get that sick, my butt gets priority seating.

There's nothing worse than regrowing eyebrow hairs that get trapped under the skin.
They can be seen long before they can be tweezed out.

However there is nothing as satisfying as waging war on them, dragging the subborn little midgets out by their wispy heads and gloating over their long roots and fat bottoms.

Or is that just me?

Also - there's nothing worse than when people say, "I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." It makes me feel evil, because not only would I wish the worst things in the world on anyone I consider an enemy, but I'd do a little victory dance when I found out it happened. Even if I was in a public place. And it might involve me going, "Wooop! Wooop!"

There's nothing worse than chemo.

Bri wins.

Tell her what she's won Johnny.

YAY!

Playin' the chemo card! No fair!!!

hmm...I use that saying...."Oh, there's nothin' worse is there?"...usually, in my defence, (unless I am merely mouthing convenient platitudes whilst drowning in conversation with someone I just don't get) it's quickly followed by "well...actually, I suppose there's a lot worse, but..."



In the spirit of the game however...

There's really nothing worse than sinking a landrover into bogland and calling for assistance, only for the assistance to arrive and promptly sink into the same bog. If there were something worse than that it would probably be,waiting all night sleeping in the cabin of the half-sunk landrover to guard it; and then watching in the early morning light as a second rescue vehicle gets stuck. Thank heavens for tractors.


I was only a peripheral player in the above drama. My brother must of course take full credit for sinking his landrover.

except for maybe not having it

Except if there's an electric heater on the opposite wall and you're my child.

Yeah, it's like saying "NAZI!'

as for what Lj said - completely right. I'm glad I'm here and if not for the chemo...who knows? May not be here at all.

:haha::lol2::notworthy

Killing folks you don't even know. And not knowing why. That is all.

Nothing is worse than logging into the cellar and finding out you've missed out on the latest installment of the latest drama.

Not majorly worse but, waking up in the very cold night needing a pee. Sliding your foot into a slipper full of cold cat sick. Ah, bless...

I say again:
I love cats.

THEY TASTE LIKE CHICKEN!

OPINION:

...the pain expressed here recently in the cellar is NOT mere local "drama" for our entertainment and fodder for our comments nor resource material for other threads.

Noted.

Well, that was a pretty mild, generic statement that could apply to any time period. Which I think is fair, but you are right, Bri.

wow...haven't seen you around much!

Yeah. Hell, caz, how ya been?

Yeah, Czin - I also haven't noticed another poster who's name escapes me at the moment but he lived in France, had a nice house and rode his bike a lot... cycleFrance!

Hey... wait a minute... don't you live near France?

Allright, Czin... out with it.

:D

K I agree with the chemo, and the killing people, and going to Iraq to protcet our asses, but I thought htis was supposed to be a fun thread? Cuz I could add to the scary list. But that's not what I came here for. I'm here for the poop and pee and barf. (Not to belittle any of the above. You are all waaaay stronger than I ever hope I have to be.)That is all.

That reminds me to post the legendary Ryan's Beefmac story tonight.

Your teenage daughter says "I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I'm pregnant."

:faints:

GOD no, please don't! :thepain:

Yeah, I was gonna say that...but I didn't want to be a whiner. Thanks. I really had wanted to keep it lighthearted because damn, we all know there are things MUCH worse than the worstest thing you can dream up. And I wanted to make fun of people who say things like "nothing worse than..." and it's something dumb like "stubbing your toe in the dark."

A long time ago, on a message board far, far away - in a different century actually, the following events were transcribed in brutal detail.

Part I

Now, I am aware that a small number of things are perhaps sheer
fabrication, but I have a story to tell that is the absolute truth.
Funniest damn thing that has ever happened to me. A couple of
weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner.
It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was
on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served.
Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy
the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little
bastards. It may seem that the events about to be told have little
connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a
moment. We went through the line and placed our orders for the
all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the
restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit.
Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni
and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping
plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I
was sated. Perhaps bit too much, however. I had not really been
feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had
eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There
was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble
breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At
first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in
batches right at the table without to much concern. Unfortunately,
that was not to be.

After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive
diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your
intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin
with, but I digress... I got up from the table and made my way to the
bathroom.

Upon entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two
urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the
back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally
I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out
a bit when I take a good shit, but in this case, the door lock was
broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to
stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having
someone walk in on me while I am taking a shit. I went to the normal
stall.

In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped
stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost
in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the
circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the
pressure on my ass was reaching Biblical proportions.
I began "The Move. "For those women who may be reading this, let
me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what
their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time
comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur
that cannot be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move
men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet,
beginning the body turn to position ones ass toward said toilet,
hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants
while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion
that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of
shit at the exact same second that ones ass is properly placed on
the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is
properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the
piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of
coordination rivaling that of a skilled ballet dancer.

I was about halfway into "The Move" when I looked down at the floor
and saw a pile of vomit that had been previously expelled by one of
those little bastards attending kids night; it was mounded up in the
corner so I did not notice it when I had first walked into the stall.
Normally, I would not have been bothered by such a thing, but I had
eaten so much and the pressure upward was so intense, that I hit a
rarely experienced gag reflex. And once that reflex started, combined
with the intense pressure upward caused by the bloated stomach,
four plates of macaroni and beef started coming up for a rematch.
What happened next was so quick that the exact sequence of events
are a bit fuzzy, but I will try to reconstruct them as best I can. In that
moment of impending projectile vomiting, my attention was diverted
from the goings-on at the other end. To put a freeze frame on the
situation, I was half crotched down to the toilet, pants pulled down to
my knees, with a load of vomit coming up my esophagus. Now, most
of you know that vomiting takes precedence over shit no matter what
is about to come slamming out of your ass.

It is apparently an evolutionary thing since shitting will not kill you,
but vomiting takes a presence of mind to accomplish so that you do
not aspirate any food into the bronchial tubes and perhaps choke to
death. My attention was thus diverted. At that very split second, my
ass exploded in what can only be described as a wake...you know,
as in a newspaper headline along the lines of "30,000 Killed In Wake
of Typhoon Fifi" or something similar. In what seemed to be most
suitably measured in cubic feet, an enormous plug of shit the
consistency of thick mud with embedded pockets of greasy liquid
came flying out of my ass. But remember, I was only halfway down
on the toilet at that moment. The shit wave was of such force and of
just such an angle in relation to the back curve of the toilet seat that
it ricocheted off the back of the seat and slammed into the wall at an
angle of incidence equal to the angle at which it initially hit the toilet
seat. Then I sat down. Recall that when that event occurred, I was
already halfway to sitting anyway and had actually reached the point
of no return. I have always considered myself as relatively stable
gravitationally, but when you get beyond a certain point, you're going
down no matter how limber you may be.

Part II

Needless to say, the shit wave, though of considerable force, was not
so sufficient so as to completely glance off the toilet seat and deposit
itself on the walls, unlike what you would see when hitting a puddle
with a high-pressure water hose; even though you throw water at the
puddle, the puddle gets moved and no water is left to re-form a
puddle. There was a significant amount of shit remaining on about
one-third of the seat rim which I had now just collapsed upon.
Now, back to the vomit... While all the shitting was going on, the
vomit was still on its way up. By the time I had actually collapsed on
the toilet, my mouth had filled up with a goodly portion of the
macaroni and beef I had just consumed. OK, so what does the
human body instinctively do when vomiting? One bends over. So I
bent over. I was still sitting on the toilet, though. Therefore, bending
over resulted in me placing my head above my now slightly opened
legs, positioned in between my knees and waist. Also directly above
my pants which were now pulled down to a point just midway
between my knees and my ankles. Oh, did I mention that I was
wearing not just pants, but sweat pants with elastic on the ankles?
In one mighty push, some three pounds of macaroni and beef, two or
three Cokes, and a couple of Big, Fat Yeast Rolls were deposited in
my pants...on the inside...with no ready exit at the bottom down by
my feet.

In the next several seconds, there were a handful of farts, a couple of
turds, and the event ended, yet I was now sitting there with my pants
full of vomit, my back covered in shit that had bounced off the toilet,
spattered on three ceramic-tiled walls to a height of about five feet,
and still had enough force to come back at me, covering the back of
my shirt with droplets of liquid shit. All while thick shit was spread all
over my ass in a ring curiously in the shape of a toilet seat.
And there was no fucking toilet paper.

What could I do but laugh? I must have sounded like a complete
maniac to the guy who then wandered into the bathroom. He actually
asked if I was OK since I was laughing so hard I must have sounded
like I was crying hysterically. I calmed down just enough to ask him if
he would get the manager. And told him to have the manager bring
some toilet paper. When the manager walked in, he brought the toilet
paper with him, but in no way was prepared for what happened next. I
simply told him that there was no way I was going to explain what
was happening in the stall, but that I needed several wet towels and I
needed him to go ask my wife to come help me. I told him where we
were sitting and he left.

At that point, I think he was probably assuming that I had pissed just
a bit in my pants or something similarly benign.
About two minutes later, my wife came into the bathroom not
knowing what was wrong and with a certain amount of worry in her
voice. I explained to her (still laughing and having trouble getting out
words) that I had a slight accident and needed her help. Knowing that
I had experienced some close calls in the past, she probably
assumed that I had laid down a small turd or something and just
needed to being the car around so we could bolt immediately.
Until I asked her, I'm sure she had no idea that she was about to go
across the street and purchase me new underwear, new socks, new
pants, a new shirt, and (by that time due to considerable leakage
around the elastic ankles thingies) new sneakers.

And she then started to laugh herself since I was still laughing. She
began to ask for an explanation as to what had happened when I
promised her that I would tell her later, but that I just needed to
handle damage control for the time being. She left. The manager then
came back in with a half-dozen wet towels and a few dry ones. I
asked him to also bring a mop and bucket upon which he assured
me that they would clean up anything that needed to be cleaned.
Without giving him specific details, I explained that what was going
on in that stall that night was far in excess of what I would expect
anyone to deal with, what with most of the folks working at Ryan's
making minimum wage of just slightly above. At that moment, I think
it dawned on him exactly the gravity of the situation. Then that
manager went so far above the call of duty that I will be eternally
grateful for his actions. He hooked up a hose.

Fortunately, commercial bathrooms are constructed with tile walls
and tile floors and have a drain in the middle of the room in order to
make clean up easy. Fortunately, I was in a commercial bathroom.
He hooked up the hose to the spigot located under the sink as I
began cleaning myself up with the wet towels. Just as I was finishing,
my wife got back with the new clothes and passed them into the
stall, whereupon I stuffed the previously worn clothing into the plastic
bag that came from the store, handing the bag to my wife. I finished
cleaning myself off and carefully put on my new clothes, still stuck in
the stall since I figured that it would be in bad taste to go out of the
stall to get redressed in the event I happened to be standing there
naked and some little bastard kid walked in. At that point, I had only
made a mess; I had not yet committed a felony and intended to keep
it that way.

When I finished getting dressed, I picked up the hose and cleaned up
the entire stall, washing down the remains toward the drain in the
center of the room. I put down the hose and walked out of the
bathroom. I had intended to go to the manager and thank him for all
he had done, but when I walked out, three of the management staff
were there to greet me with a standing ovation. I started laughing so
hard that I thought I was going to throw up again, but managed to
scurry out to the car where my wife was now waiting to pick me up
by the front door.

The upshot of all this is that I strongly recommend eating dinner at
Ryan's Steak House. They have, by far, the nicest management staff
of any restaurant in which I have eaten.

FACT:

I was making a generic statement and the joke was about timezones and not anything else. Aside from that, it was a general statement about the fact that shitstorms always happen when we on this side of the world are sleeping.

If Red or Labrat have a problem with my statement, they haven't said so. If they do, I will consider myself told by the appropriate person.

*thunderous applause*

the aristocrats

gawd thanks you for participation in the human race

@Beestie Your DA MAN.

There's nothing worse than being castrated by a rusty tomato can wielded by terrorists as you are buggering their goat.

Except, possibly, being castrated by a rusty tomato can wielded by goats as you are buggering their terrorist...

snail
 

Nothing is worse than stepping on a snail.

*crunch - squish*

Ahhhhh!!!!!

Bloody hell...vocal's perked up! *grins*

much as I hate stepping on snails...slugs are worse imo...

There's nothing worse than stepping on a large squishy slug (with strangely crunchy bits) at night whilst letting out the dog ... only to find the next morning it was the eviscerated remains of a vole. (courtesy of one of the street's cats).

I hate it when that happens.

There is nothing worse than being on a strict diet, going to class and discovering someone brought pizza, while another brought cheesecake with an oreo cookie crust.

MTP wins. The Bastards.

Hi Dana L.J & Beestie and thanks for noticing, and living near France is true, and near Wales and the Channel Isles and the Scillies but Cyclefrance I ain't. With MY knees!!??

I've lurked occasionaly and looked at the pictures, as one does, but for ages was without the technology or too tired or whatever to be active. Done chemo too and flirted with the reaper but all's well now. Looking forward to summer on the beach and planting the garden, truly mellow and chilled, and will dip in again at some point. You are good guys.

Wow, CZ! Congrats on winning the battle and welcome back! Enjoy the beacha nd garden for me!

In both of these I had read tourist for terrorist ... :eyebrow:

Nothing is worse than buying a really cute new pc os right before you lose interest in the internet for the most part.

I haven't done anything but shop for garden plants. ho-hum

You are f*cking busted! Get your intarwebcamz OUT of my bathroom now! And from now on, I'm wearing a tinfoil hat and tinfoil shorts.

:eyeball::eyeball:

Undertoad ^^^^

Is watching you?

It seems that way sometimes....

Been there. Done that. Sympathy.

Welcome to another episode of "Blechs! And The Shitty".