ITT:Creepy

Things that don't belong anywhere else. (Check first).

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Babam
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ITT:Creepy

Postby Babam » Wed Mar 04, 2009 12:12 am UTC

Incoming Massive Creepy Pasta DUMP.

Spoiler:
In many stores and establishments that provide videos of a less than savory manner, a business card is kept. Some stores keep it well hidden, locked in a safe, and will deny its existence. Others will show you if you ask for it by name. None will have it displayed in the open.

On this card is a name, "Moonlight Films", and a contact number. It is always a local number. Go to any payphone in your city and dial the number. The answer will be prompt but all you will hear is silence. Wait thirty seconds. Then you will be served.

A dry, monotone male voice will ask you a question: "Is the road from life to death dark?" The correct response is: "It is moonlit."

If you answer with anything but the correct reply, he will hang up on you. If you fail the first time, I'd suggest not trying again. But if the question is answered properly, the man will say one address in your city and then hang up.

Go to this address and you will find that it is a small, dingy apartment. The carpet will be dirty, the wallpaper flaking and wrinkled, the windows cracked. It will smell of tobacco smoke and decay. On the stained old coffee table there will be a paper bag. On this bag your full name will be written in red sharpie.

Open the bag and you will find an unlabeled video tape. Take it and place exactly $10.99 in the bag then leave.

You can watch the tape if you like, but you don't have to. I warn you: it's not pleasant. You will see a room or chamber papered in dessicated skin, the furniture will be crafted from flesh and bone. The tape will last approximately 32 minutes and will depict the murder of a person and the subsequent crafting of their body into furnishing -- lampshades made of skin, tables made of bone.

After renting the tape for one week, you must return it to the apartment by sliding it through the mail slot when the time is up. After that, never return to the apartment and definitely don't call the number ever again.

I'd also suggest you not keep the tape more than a week. The owners will not be satisfied with a mere late fee -- and you know, a good home can never have enough accessories.

Spoiler:
Have you ever heard the expression "an apple a day keeps the Doctor away?" Most assume, with no reason to think otherwise, that it is simply an easy-to-remember rhyme that stresses the importance of eating healthily to young children. But the saying did not originate as a harmless reminder. It was born in a frontier town in the early years of the gold rush, where food was scarce and money even scarcer.

One August, when a bad drought had struck the region, a series of bloody killings swept through the town. Every night, a single house would be broken into, and anyone who saw the invader would be swiftly, brutally slain. Nothing was ever stolen, save for a few scraps of food.

After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by.

Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, and then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden 'til sunrise.

The strange man had only taken one of the apples, and didn't even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into, and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.


Spoiler:
In the winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a medic in the German army had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment was a bloodbath. Those who survived claimed to have heard, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.

The medic had made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never had he been this short on supplies. No matter. He would do his duty. He had always prided himself on his resourcefulness.

The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, and most men dropped off to sleep in the dark, still hours of the morning - New Year's Day, 1945. The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, yet there had been no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.

The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, and tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal that large patches of his skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body was almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial. None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January, 1945.


Spoiler:
There was a couple from Texas who was planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the boy got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he was missing. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait. Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told.

About 45 minutes later, a Mexican man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in the 45 minutes he was missing, he had been cut open, all of his organs removed, and stuffed with bags of cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.


Spoiler:
An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn't sure of which direction to go, and he'd forgotten both where he was traveling to...and who he was.

He'd sat down for a moment to rest his weary legs, and suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him.

She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: "Now your third wish. What will it be?"

"Third wish?" The man was baffled. "How can it be a third wish if I haven’t had a first and second wish?"

"You’ve had two wishes already," the hag said, "but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That’s why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes." She cackled at the poor man. "So it is that you have one wish left."

"All right," he said hesitantly, "I don't believe this, but there's no harm in trying. I wish to know who I am."

"Funny," said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. "That was your first wish..."

Spoiler:
Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. In a certain small town Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn't either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.

"Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked.

"Yes!" The muffled voice asserted.

"You were born on September 17, 1827?"

"Yes!"

"The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857."

"No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!"

"Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as Hell ain't alive no more, and you ain't comin' up."

Spoiler:
If you go into this one tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, and the right bartender is behind the counter that night, you might be able to see a very exclusive gallery show of the lost works of one Henri Beauchamp. But, to get in, you have to prove you're a devotee of the artist to get in.

You'll be asked, in clear and perfect English, "What would like to partake of this glorious night?". Answer absinthe, no matter what. Any other drink, from whiskey to water, will kill you as you sleep.

The next question will regard the type, and you MUST answer one of two things: "The stuff that Man himself could not bear to take," or, "The good stuff. The best stuff." If you ask for any other absinthe, in any other way, you will be plagued by nightmares for 13 days. Each night's dream will be more horrible than the last, until, upon the thirteenth dream, your nightmare will follow you, every moment of your waking and sleeping life. Don't try and cheat the barkeep: the door locked behind you. You have to drink what he gives you, doom or not. That such a powerful man granted you audience should be enough. Besides, I've heard that the dying complimented his drinks in their death throes.

If you make it that far before sealing your fate, the bartender will say, "Be sure you handle this with care; this is the finest I have." From here, you may do one of two things: Say, word for word, "I overestimated my fortitude, and I bid you good eve.". If the barkeep nods, you may leave the door you entered, unharmed and with nothing gained and nothing lost (except the time spent inside).

Or you can go on. You will be given a glass with a seven-sided rim, with each side twisting ever so delicately around the basin until forming a sleek and simple handle. You will also receive a very, very, very special absinthe spoon, in the shape of a key; the holes at the key's top serve as the draining point for the alcohol to pour over the sugar cube. And, of course, an unmarked bottle, stripped long ago of its label, scraps of paper sticking to its sides, covered in the rot of the decades past.

The spoon is completely flat, but has two distinct sides: one with a groove along the shaft of the key, and one without. Turn the shaft down, so its groove will be face down. If you attempt this face up, your absinthe will taste foul, your nose will burn, and your eyes will shrivel in their sockets with unspeakable horrors not of this world. Now, if your spoon is the right way up, begin preparing the absinthe as one would (put the sugar on the spoon, and pour the alcohol over so it gains its color and "special qualities").

Say "cheers" to your friend, the barkeep, and bottoms up. If you don't, the absinthe will burn every innard it touches with the power and pain of sulfuric acid.

If you've done it right, the already dim lights will go off, and darkness will consume the bar. Don't be afraid; the darkness is the cue that you've been approved for the exhibit. Wait out the darkness, and keep silent as the dead, lest the bartender decide to make you so.

Eventually (not too long, two to three minutes), a green floodlight will shine brightly on a door on the far wall of the bar. The bar will be bathed in green, and not just from the floodlight. Little luminescent spheres will gently drift through the room, and the barkeep will no longer be there... nor any other unassuming patron inside before. There's no danger by this point... consider it a safe point. If you didn't finish the absinthe, you don't have to, but you might need the alcohol. Either way, take the spoon and put it in the keyhole of the green-lit portal's doorknob. It will fit perfectly, and reach the end of the keyhole with a resounding click.

Inside is a small elevator, with the most beautiful woman any mortal eyes can imagine, bathed in the green glow in just such an angle that the light refracts beyond her into the shape of wings.

The Green Fairy herself will ask you, "Going up?”, and considering all the trouble you went through, it would only make sense to say yes.

Now, you have one more hurdle to clear. She will ask you, as you cross the line from the bar to the compartment, "How would you compare Beauchamp's surrealism to that of, say, Rene Magritte?" For your reply, you must say, "I've come to see more than art tonight."

If you don't, the green floodlight will blow out, the doors will slam shut, and the elevator will plummet through a seemingly infinite blackness before a red light grows brighter as the elevator nears the very depths of Hell. Now, if your elevator begins to go up, the green light will also fade, but in its place will be the cool glow of the moon. But, before you even recognize it, the elevator will reach the top of its... well, let's call it a shaft to not get too intricate.

Now, I'm not as sure about this as the rest, but I've heard that, if the Green Fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the elevator, you will always be blessed with a creative inspiration: a permanent, ever-changing muse. You can't ask her, you can't kiss her; she has to do it of her own volition. If not... well, nothing, but no reason to do it anyway and anger the woman who is responsible for keeping the Beauchamp paintings safe for so many years.

You will enter, from the elevator, a turn-of-the-century parlor, with a large poster of Henri Beauchamp on the left side of the opposite wall; on the right is a door.

Taking the time to read the poster is a fairly good idea, as it explains the very significance of Mr. Beauchamp. You see, he was a struggling surrealist in the 1920s, always making art to try to be free of all premeditation, and managed to do so. You see, after one night in a tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, he began to paint... patterns. First it was geometric patterns. Then complete fractals. Then images that would be in the newspaper the next day. Then next week. Then from fifty years ago. 100 in the future, 200 in the past...

Then, on his last night of life, he kidnapped three young girls from their homes at night, murdered them, and painted his finest masterpieces in reds and yellows with the blood and bile of virgins.

He committed suicide immediately after painting exactly 13 of these.

These are behind the door.

The first six, from the left, show, from left to right: the genesis of the universe, the only true visage of God as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Jesus Christ, the sprawling clouds of Heaven, every Pope from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of Jesus' appearance in his Second Coming.

The other six, on the right, show, from right to left: the cataclysmic of the universe, the only true visage of Satan as viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Judas, the sprawling flames of Hell, every human-embodied demon from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of the Antichrist in his Second Coming.

Now, six and six makes twelve. But what of the thirteenth?

This thirteenth painting is turned around on its wall pin, the image facing the wall. The space around it is roped up at a very wide diameter, and under the flipped image is a sign, in three languages. The top is in the scriptures of the seraphim, the bottom in the runes of the highest demonic orders, and in the middle, in Roman letters.

DO

NOT

TOUCH

Now, like the kiss, I can't say this part with as much certainty, but all the same... I heard that, somehow, as he died, Beauchamp flayed his skin, his organs, his very soul, into some sort of collage. How he took his dead body and created such a horrific masterpiece, I could never say, nor would I ever dare to.

So... if you make it, maybe you can flip the canvas over and tell me sometime? You can tell me about it over a drink.

ITT:Creepy Pasta and Creepy Pictures
Spoiler:
crucialityfactor wrote:I KNEW he could club bitches!

SecondTalon wrote:Reality - More fucked up than Photoshop.

s/notwittysig/wittysig

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby ParanoidDrone » Wed Mar 04, 2009 12:53 am UTC

I think it says something about me that, while I won't dispute the creepiness of the stories, I don't think I'll be having nightmares about them or anything. I can all but guarantee that I'll forget about these in a few hours unless I read them again.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Babam » Wed Mar 04, 2009 12:57 am UTC

ParanoidDrone wrote:I think it says something about me that, while I won't dispute the creepiness of the stories, I don't think I'll be having nightmares about them or anything. I can all but guarantee that I'll forget about these in a few hours unless I read them again.

It's better when you read them at say around 3am with the lights out. Maybe I should ask Priests permission to post some of his work, he posts on /x/ and some it is actually fairly decent.
Spoiler:
crucialityfactor wrote:I KNEW he could club bitches!

SecondTalon wrote:Reality - More fucked up than Photoshop.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Chfan » Wed Mar 04, 2009 1:13 am UTC

Can everyone just make sure to spoiler their creepy pictures?
Just FYI, the guy isn't avatar isn't me. But he seems pretty cool.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Paranoid__Android » Wed Mar 04, 2009 1:13 am UTC

That was a bit.... Creepy

don't post any more, I might be tempted to read it.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Actaeus » Wed Mar 04, 2009 2:12 am UTC

I just made a creepy smiley, and I've been trying to slip it into posts Image

Keep up the creeping, it's awesome!

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Silvyr » Wed Mar 04, 2009 3:04 am UTC

AH AH AH AH! WATCHMEN! *runs in circles*

Sorry. Anyways. On topic.. that's kinda really creepy... *leaves apple outside door*
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby SecondTalon » Wed Mar 04, 2009 4:08 am UTC

Ted's Caving Story
I would just copy-paste it, but I don't feel like making all the image links.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby ParanoidAndroid » Wed Mar 04, 2009 5:04 am UTC

I love creepy stories, but I don't think any of them have every actually scared or disturbed me. I just find them interesting.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Nemphael » Wed Mar 04, 2009 11:44 am UTC

Some time ago, a delicate book of "wandering stories", or whatever they're called in English, was embodied and thus soon found it's way to my shelf. It's in Norwegian, though. Nineteen grisly stories are told, most of them telling eerie stories of murders or wandering spirits. There's one about a girl who's going to her school dance: She's wearing a newly bought dress from a pawn shop. Apparently, funeral services sell the clothing their customers wear at funerals - they used a chemical called formaldehyde.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Dr_Gonzo » Wed Mar 04, 2009 2:43 pm UTC

This is creepy
Spoiler:
Image
Last edited by Hammer on Wed Mar 04, 2009 3:45 pm UTC, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: Spoiler tags added
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Meowgan » Wed Mar 04, 2009 2:45 pm UTC

Spoiler that shit.
<L> dude. she made a motherfucking stargate.
<L> you need to keep this girl. do whatever it takes.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Paranoid__Android » Wed Mar 04, 2009 4:08 pm UTC

Dr_Gonzo wrote:This is creepy
Spoiler:
Image


I hate you
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby TaintedDeity » Wed Mar 04, 2009 4:22 pm UTC

SecondTalon wrote:Ted's Caving Story
I would just copy-paste it, but I don't feel like making all the image links.

Spoiler:
It stops! I spent a while reading that and it goes and stops! I mean, sure, that makes it seem like they never returned and that's pretty creepy but I want to know what's down there!
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby the_bandersnatch » Wed Mar 04, 2009 5:11 pm UTC

SecondTalon wrote:Ted's Caving Story
I would just copy-paste it, but I don't feel like making all the image links.


I just spent nearly an hour reading through that and am very annoyed by the ending! I know it's meant to be more suspenseful by letting you extrapolate what happened, but it just got me frustrated. Grrr.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby SecondTalon » Wed Mar 04, 2009 5:14 pm UTC

There's also Dionaea House, which uses things like Livejournal and such to tell it's story.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby wst » Wed Mar 04, 2009 5:38 pm UTC

The Jaunt by Stephen King is very creepy, so I've heard ;)
I have it as an ebook, but I need to get my arse into gear about getting an ebook reader...
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Chfan » Wed Mar 04, 2009 7:57 pm UTC

What's under the spoiler?
Just FYI, the guy isn't avatar isn't me. But he seems pretty cool.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Voco » Wed Mar 04, 2009 8:21 pm UTC

Chfan wrote:What's under the spoiler?


A very closely shot picture of a human eye with a worm in it.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Lord Aurora » Wed Mar 04, 2009 8:43 pm UTC

Spoiler:
Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City?
I’m a thousand miles away from you
Or maybe I’m just sitting right outside
Your window—don’t pull down the blinds!
Oh, damn, you’re fine.

Hey there Delilah, I already cut the phone lines
I’m right here, I locked the door and gave your dog methyl trichloride…
Let him sleep. Quiet down, now, please don’t make a peep.
You’re mine to keep.

Oh, look what you made me do (4x)
What you made me do…ooo-ooo…

Hey there Delilah, wonder how I got these scars?
The prison that you sent me to had quite abusive guards
But now I’m back. You’re not an easy girl to track
Or to attack.

Hey there Delilah, I’ve got so much left to say,
I guess I’ll have to tie you tight so that
You’ll never get away until I’m done
But I doubt you’ll ever see the sun…won’t this be fun!

Oh, look what you made me do (4x)

Forever might seem pretty long
To spend tied up with leather thongs
But I just had no other choice my dear
Your friends might wonder where you’ve gone
And weeds will choke your grassy lawn
But if you’re good you have nothing to fear

Delilah I can promise you
That by the time that I get through
Your body never will be quite the same
And you’re to blame

Hey there Delilah, you be good and don’t you run now
I’ll just loosen up these ropes
And start right in with our activities today

You know it’s all because of you
I can do whatever I want to
Hey there Delilah, I love you
Don’t look so blue…
Oh, look what you made me do (4x)
What you made me do…
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby the_bandersnatch » Wed Mar 04, 2009 9:36 pm UTC

wst wrote:The Jaunt by Stephen King is very creepy, so I've heard ;)
I have it as an ebook, but I need to get my arse into gear about getting an ebook reader...


I thought The Jaunt was a good story and had some interesting ideas, but it would be surprised if anyone was really creeped out by it. If you do a quick search on the googles you'll be able to find a PDF of it in full, you can probably finish it in about half an hour or so.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Numquam » Fri Mar 06, 2009 4:21 am UTC

Apparently the dionaea house is going to be made into a movie. (Or atleast the script was bought by Warner Brothers.) It will be interesting to see how they implement it, but imo part of what made it so good was the method in which it was written.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Hawknc » Fri Mar 06, 2009 1:09 pm UTC

I'll be honest, opening this thread I really just expected a whole bunch of "Postify your Facerity" extracts...

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby wst » Fri Mar 06, 2009 10:37 pm UTC

Daft punk are soo fucking creepy sometimes.

First link: Girl cuts off her skin because everyone is thinner than her & related psychological sufferings.
Second link: It's like Chucky, but with no skin. It's robo-chucky! Singing, sort of.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Pirate.Bondage » Sat Mar 07, 2009 12:27 am UTC

Everyone has heard this one. It's creepy because it actually happens.
Spoiler:
A man and woman went to Las Vegas for their honeymoon, and checked into a suite at a hotel. When they got to their room they both detected a bad odor. The husband called down to the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. He explained that the room smelled very bad and they would like another suite. The manager apologized and told the man that they were all booked because of a convention. He offered to send them to a restaurant of their choice for lunch compliments of the hotel and said he was going to send a maid up to their room to clean and to try and get rid of the odor.

After a nice lunch the couple went back to their room. When they walked in they could both still smell the same odor. Again the husband called the front desk and told the manager that the room still smelled really bad. The manager told the man that they would try and find a suite at another hotel. He called every hotel on the strip, but every hotel was sold out because of the convention. The manager told the couple that they couldn't find them a room anywhere, but they would try and clean the room again. The couple wanted to see the sights and do a little gambling anyway, so they said they would give them two hours to clean and then they would be back.

When the couple had left, the manager and all of housekeeping went to the room to try and find what was making the room smell so bad. They searched the entire room and found nothing, so the maids changed the sheets, changed the towels, took down the curtains and put new ones up, cleaned the carpet and cleaned the suite again using the strongest cleaning products they had. The couple came back two hours later to find the room still had a bad odor. The husband was so angry at this point, he decided to find whatever this smell was himself. So he started tearing the entire suite apart himself.

As he pulled the top mattress off the box spring he found a dead body of a woman.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Jessica » Sat Mar 07, 2009 12:50 am UTC

Haven't heard that one...

I like haunted for interesting and weird stories. Like the free one on his website. It's not creepy like the previous stories, but it's not for the faint of stomach.
Spoiler:
Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can.

This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkstand, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So, my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them.

That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "Spirit of the Stairway." In French: Esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party…

As you start down the stairway, then -- magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That's the Spirit of the Stairway.

The trouble is even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around the kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look… better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad, teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how -- the day before -- he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ball-point pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally re-invented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's suppertime. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and more rough, coated with crystals of calcium, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mistake, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking off, I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my Mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, thinking she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father AND the uncle.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it.

As the French would say: Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked?

Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute, I'm settling on the pool bottom, and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow-striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute, I've got enough air, and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.

It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about EVERYTHING.

Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Getting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat inside my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and criss-crossing my eyes, I turn and look back… but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue-white and braided with veins has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding onto my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue-white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So… I kick at it, at the slippery, rubbery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butthole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse-pill vitamin my Dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega-three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call, prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working - unraveling my insides -- until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit, and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctor's call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unraveling out my ass, me holding onto what's left, even then my first want is to somehow get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow-striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lamb-skin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then, try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lamb-skin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second, and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim, and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital thirteen years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football scholarship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen telephone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow-striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say: "I need that like I need a hole in my head…" Russian people say: "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole…"

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell… even if you're Russian, some day you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is -- you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air, and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night.

If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trouble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my Mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me…

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resectioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inches. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was thirteen.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swimming pool. In the end my Dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vitamin pill still inside, even then, my Dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my Dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second…"

Then my sister missed Shark Week.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never mentioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

End
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby TaintedDeity » Sat Mar 07, 2009 6:55 pm UTC

Guts.
Eurgh....
When I first read that it was just before I went to sleep, that was a bad plan.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Elvish Pillager » Sat Mar 07, 2009 6:58 pm UTC

Pirate.Bondage wrote:It's creepy because it actually happens.

Yeah. This would be quite suitable to write a creepy story about, too.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby niteice » Sun Mar 08, 2009 9:20 am UTC

Spoiler:
In a certain area of a city somewhere in Western Philadelphia is an area of flat concrete, the kind of place used as a basketball court or similar, near to a school building. If you wait in this area on the 10th September, you will eventually be approached by two youths with an aggressive demeanor about them. The youths will challenge you to a fight, which you must accept. Following the brawl, return to your home. It is important that you tell your mother of this incident. She will become perturbed by your tale, and order you to leave for an area of Los Angeles. You will be compelled to obey her. At the nearest taxi rank, whistle for a cab and one will approach. You may see that its license plate reads "FRESH", and there will be novelty dice dangling from the rear-view mirror. Do not be disturbed by the odor of the cab's interior, and speak only the words "Yo home, to Bel Air" to the driver. When you arrive in Los Angeles, which should be around the hours of 7:00 or 8:00 PM, you must speak again to the driver, this time saying "Yo home, smell ya' later". DO NOT LOOK BACK AS THE TAXI LEAVES. You will be dropped off at the entrance to a large mansion. Approach the door and knock three times. If you follow these instructions exactly, you will be allowed to claim your place as the Prince of this area of Los Angeles, known only as "Bel-Air". You will be led to a room with an enormous throne, encrusted with the largest diamonds and fashioned from the purest of gold. This throne is object 539 of 538. Sit on it, and ponder what to do next.


Spoiler:
Legend has it that if you travel east to Japan, you will find an old man living on the coast just 40 miles south of Tokyo. If you give this man $500,000 he will take you to an island just off the coast that can't be found on any map. This island is filled with people without faces or names, who hold grudges over the most trivial of matters. When you arrive at this island the first thing you will see is a swimming pool that is never open. Just beyond the pool you will find a town that is filled with cats. You must find a white cat wearing a pink bow. If you ask the cat how to get to Mexico, he will stand up and ask you for three things: Your name, your face, and your soul. If you agree to give them to him, your face will vanish and you will forget your own name. You can live on the island and have whatever you desire, but you can never leave the island. The only way to escape is to find the cat again and ask for a young child. The next day a van will pull up in front of your house. You will hear a knock at the door, and a voice will ask if you want to come to a party. No one knows what happens if you answer the door.


Spoiler:
The human race is a fucked up thing. Every year we produce wonderful paintings and gruesome murders. Every town has them. Same thing on the internet. We all know where the wonderful elements of humanity go to: we see the charities and the awesome photoshops and all the good stuff because that all gets passed around like delicious cake at a party. But where does all the bad stuff go?

All the images of true evil,they don't need to pass themselves around. They all wait in one place, knowing that the people that need to see them are called, and will inevitably come to them. Of course, even people that don't NEED to see them sometimes get curious, and it can be a little harder for decent folks to find them. But it can be done. The trick is patience, and a certain amount of kindness to strangers.

Just hang around the internet. Talk to people. Make friends. Eventually you'll meet one of the proverbial wolves in sheeps' clothing. If you're nice enough to him (it's always a him) eventually one day he'll tell you to look for the sign of the separated leaves and the single lined letter, but he won't explain anymore than that. Even with the blackest evil, there are still rules to be obeyed, and talking about this place openly is enough to become its victim.

Ask around, mentioning those words. No one will know the whole truth, but eventually you'll piece together enough clues, enough of the references that you'll get a URL.

Consider carefully before you type in that URL. Once you go in, you can never, ever unsee what you will see. You will see your childhood raped and shattered into 34 pieces. You will learn to fear cats and never, ever eat pizza again.

It is the ending of the internet. It is the death of civilization and the birth of a new dark era. It is 4chan's /b/.


After reading a lot of creepypasta you eventually find some original content ;)
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Chfan » Sun Mar 08, 2009 2:21 pm UTC

Nice. The first and third made me laugh.
Just FYI, the guy isn't avatar isn't me. But he seems pretty cool.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby TaintedDeity » Sun Mar 08, 2009 4:00 pm UTC

There's a rather wonderful story I found recently called "I have no mouth and I must scream".
It's fairly graphic in it's description and not a fun bedtime read, you can probably find a pdf online, but if not it's worth finding it.
It's by Harlan Ellison, I think.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Actaeus » Sun Mar 08, 2009 8:22 pm UTC

Shitbathing Nazis
AKA "The Shitty Roommate"

It starts as a list of "terrible things my roommate did" and turns into a level of Resident Evil. I believe it's a true story :shock:

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Zeroignite » Sun Mar 08, 2009 9:41 pm UTC

Actaeus wrote:Shitbathing Nazis
AKA "The Shitty Roommate"

It starts as a list of "terrible things my roommate did" and turns into a level of Resident Evil. I believe it's a true story :shock:
I can attest to the fact that while this may be long, it is worth reading.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby TaintedDeity » Sun Mar 08, 2009 10:19 pm UTC

That is beyond anything I've ever read, if only because my mind is allowing me to think it is real.
Shiiit.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby invisibl » Sun Mar 08, 2009 10:22 pm UTC

Pirate.Bondage wrote:Everyone has heard this one. It's creepy because it actually happens.
Spoiler:
A man and woman went to Las Vegas for their honeymoon, and checked into a suite at a hotel. When they got to their room they both detected a bad odor. The husband called down to the front desk and asked to speak to the manager. He explained that the room smelled very bad and they would like another suite. The manager apologized and told the man that they were all booked because of a convention. He offered to send them to a restaurant of their choice for lunch compliments of the hotel and said he was going to send a maid up to their room to clean and to try and get rid of the odor.

After a nice lunch the couple went back to their room. When they walked in they could both still smell the same odor. Again the husband called the front desk and told the manager that the room still smelled really bad. The manager told the man that they would try and find a suite at another hotel. He called every hotel on the strip, but every hotel was sold out because of the convention. The manager told the couple that they couldn't find them a room anywhere, but they would try and clean the room again. The couple wanted to see the sights and do a little gambling anyway, so they said they would give them two hours to clean and then they would be back.

When the couple had left, the manager and all of housekeeping went to the room to try and find what was making the room smell so bad. They searched the entire room and found nothing, so the maids changed the sheets, changed the towels, took down the curtains and put new ones up, cleaned the carpet and cleaned the suite again using the strongest cleaning products they had. The couple came back two hours later to find the room still had a bad odor. The husband was so angry at this point, he decided to find whatever this smell was himself. So he started tearing the entire suite apart himself.

As he pulled the top mattress off the box spring he found a dead body of a woman.



Umm Four Rooms?

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0113101/

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Quadropus » Sun Mar 08, 2009 10:52 pm UTC

Actaeus wrote:Shitbathing Nazis
AKA "The Shitty Roommate"

It starts as a list of "terrible things my roommate did" and turns into a level of Resident Evil. I believe it's a true story :shock:

Jesus H. Christ.

That is FUCKED UP.

Read it now!!! Lengthy, but worth it.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Elvish Pillager » Mon Mar 09, 2009 12:52 am UTC

TaintedDeity wrote:There's a rather wonderful story I found recently called "I have no mouth and I must scream".
It's fairly graphic in it's description and not a fun bedtime read, you can probably find a pdf online, but if not it's worth finding it.
It's by Harlan Ellison, I think.

I've read that! :D (yeah, there's a full PDF online, within an easy google search.)

I found it interesting in that it rested its entire weight on its weird imagery. If you think about it, it has almost no plot - and it found a way to be successful despite this.
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Hit3k » Mon Mar 09, 2009 1:59 am UTC

Reading some of those sent shivers down my spine. That hasn't happened for years. Some of these stories are incredibly creepy. But not creepy enough to creepify my dreams at night.
Sungura wrote:My mom made me watch a star wars. Two of them , actually. The Death Star one and the one where the dude ends up in the swamp with the weird guy who talks funny.

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Iori_Yagami
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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby Iori_Yagami » Mon Mar 09, 2009 8:31 pm UTC

OK, not so creepy, but might actually make you vomit. My buddy told me that joke when I was little. I was not laughing at all.

Spoiler:
So, three amigos found a neat box of looted treasure. They divided it evenly, and the last, most beautiful jewel remained.
- So, who'll get this? Diego, Sanches or Pedro?
-Me! Me!
-Fine then. We'll make a contest, and only the one who loves it the most will get it. You'll have to make as many gulps from a wastebucket as you can. Whoever makes the most, will get the stone.
-Deal.
So, Diego starts. With trembling hands, he slowly puts bucket to his mouth, closes his eyes, stops breathing... *gulp*. -Yeeeeech, blasts I am so rotten. Screw your jewel, I am stopping now.
Now, Sanchez takes the bucket into his hands. With firm glare, he lowers his head, makes a gulp, stays staring and shaking, moans, takes a second gulp, than stops. -Bleeeech! I am better than Diego, but this is foul! Not anymore!
Finally, Pedro stares at the bucket, mumbles, makes a deep breath, plunges down - *gulp*, ..., *gulp*, ......, *gulp*, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th gulp, 8th..., 9th..., 10th..., 11th...! -Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww... Pedro stops at this point. -I am done, never again, never. Ugh!
-Wow, you won, pal. It is yours, noone doubts you love treasure the most. But tell us, why didn't you stop after the 3rd gulp? It was more than we could do! Why all the 11 gulps?
-What could I do, anyway, if I just caught a really that loooong loogie?
They cannot defend themselves; they cannot run away. INSANITY is their only way of escape.

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Re: ITT:Creepy

Postby sje46 » Mon Mar 09, 2009 9:27 pm UTC

Iori_Yagami wrote:OK, not so creepy, but might actually make you vomit. My buddy told me that joke when I was little. I was not laughing at all.

Spoiler:
So, three amigos found a neat box of looted treasure. They divided it evenly, and the last, most beautiful jewel remained.
- So, who'll get this? Diego, Sanches or Pedro?
-Me! Me!
-Fine then. We'll make a contest, and only the one who loves it the most will get it. You'll have to make as many gulps from a wastebucket as you can. Whoever makes the most, will get the stone.
-Deal.
So, Diego starts. With trembling hands, he slowly puts bucket to his mouth, closes his eyes, stops breathing... *gulp*. -Yeeeeech, blasts I am so rotten. Screw your jewel, I am stopping now.
Now, Sanchez takes the bucket into his hands. With firm glare, he lowers his head, makes a gulp, stays staring and shaking, moans, takes a second gulp, than stops. -Bleeeech! I am better than Diego, but this is foul! Not anymore!
Finally, Pedro stares at the bucket, mumbles, makes a deep breath, plunges down - *gulp*, ..., *gulp*, ......, *gulp*, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th gulp, 8th..., 9th..., 10th..., 11th...! -Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww... Pedro stops at this point. -I am done, never again, never. Ugh!
-Wow, you won, pal. It is yours, noone doubts you love treasure the most. But tell us, why didn't you stop after the 3rd gulp? It was more than we could do! Why all the 11 gulps?
-What could I do, anyway, if I just caught a really that loooong loogie?

Your joke is stupid and makes no sense. Until you explain it, that is.
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