| Report for Mr Beret | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 5 |
| Pending stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 3 |
| Summary | Exemplary Child |
A section in Razzle where the male readers sent in naked pictures of themselves, presumably so that they could show the wife, to try and get her in the mood.
They paid £10 for every 'one for the ladies' entry, leading Alun to come up with possibly the worst money making scheme of our young lives: he decided to submit a photo of himself in the buff. Worried that he might be recognised, he decided that he'd wear an SAS style balaclava to protect his identity. Thankfully, the plan never reached fruition, as I'm sure that child protection officers would have been very interested in tracing the origin of photos of a naked 13 year old boy wearing a balaclava.
They paid £10 for every 'one for the ladies' entry, leading Alun to come up with possibly the worst money making scheme of our young lives: he decided to submit a photo of himself in the buff. Worried that he might be recognised, he decided that he'd wear an SAS style balaclava to protect his identity. Thankfully, the plan never reached fruition, as I'm sure that child protection officers would have been very interested in tracing the origin of photos of a naked 13 year old boy wearing a balaclava.
The mythical nymph that delivers crumpled and stained pornography to pubescent boys. The Porn Fairy leads its followers on a wild and wonderous treasure hunt, hiding its bounty of slightly soiled jazz mags in hedges along secluded country lanes, in dark alleyways at the back of the corner store, and, for some reason, in the park by my mate's house.
After a while, you develop a killer instinct for tracking down the Fairy's wares, and swoop like a hawk on any stray pieces of coloured paper that catch your eye. This often lasts into adulthood, resulting in fully-grown men who can't pass a bin without a quick rummage, and who will vault over fences and chase through fields after that distant piece of glossy that invariably turns out to be nothing more than a discarded Sunday Mirror magazine.
MUTINOUS ENTRY-CRASH FROM AN EDITOR: Seriously dude, Porn Fairy? Are we going to have entries for White Dog Poo and Spangles reminiscences? There’s a fine line between whimsical memory jogging and tired out old stand-up routines that are such lazy comedy cliches they have in themselves become lazy comedy cliches. What next- "Was Mr. Benn gay?" "Is it me or were Cadburys Crème Eggs a lot bigger when we were kids?" JESUS. Log and Phil, my fellow eds, I’m looking at you in a tutting type way.
After a while, you develop a killer instinct for tracking down the Fairy's wares, and swoop like a hawk on any stray pieces of coloured paper that catch your eye. This often lasts into adulthood, resulting in fully-grown men who can't pass a bin without a quick rummage, and who will vault over fences and chase through fields after that distant piece of glossy that invariably turns out to be nothing more than a discarded Sunday Mirror magazine.
MUTINOUS ENTRY-CRASH FROM AN EDITOR: Seriously dude, Porn Fairy? Are we going to have entries for White Dog Poo and Spangles reminiscences? There’s a fine line between whimsical memory jogging and tired out old stand-up routines that are such lazy comedy cliches they have in themselves become lazy comedy cliches. What next- "Was Mr. Benn gay?" "Is it me or were Cadburys Crème Eggs a lot bigger when we were kids?" JESUS. Log and Phil, my fellow eds, I’m looking at you in a tutting type way.
The pupil of Ysgol Tryfan, Bangor, who removed one of his dainty stools from the bowl, and smeared it across the walls of the toilet, leading to an assembly in which we were told we had "a very real problem". Retards and pyschopaths alike came under suspicion, but the plucky turdslinging Welshman who wrecked the walls with bowels of folly will take this secret to his grave.
If you're going to publically ridicule my post, can you at least take my name off it? I can't believe I come and visit a playground on the internet, and I get picked on by the big kids. Twats.
No, it's too late. One of my real life friends has seen this, and my internet ridicule has become real world ridicule. The only course of action left to me is to tell my parents that I'm doing my homework, and hang myself in my bedroom. You'll be sorry then.