| Report for Susan Tobacco | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 46 |
| Pending stories (hidden) | 2 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 1 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 4 |
| Summary | Perfectly Exquisite |
Here we come,
walking down the street,
We get the funniest looks 'cause,
We've got no hands or feet,
Hey Hey, We're the Stumpies...
And so forth.
walking down the street,
We get the funniest looks 'cause,
We've got no hands or feet,
Hey Hey, We're the Stumpies...
And so forth.
You have 15 pens in an exciting variety of styles and hues. So do all the other members. It's a whole bunch of fun. Who WOULDN'T want to be in the Pen Fifteen club? So the uncool kid, desperate to join the gang, collects together fifteen pens in an equally exciting variety of styles and hues, and proudly presents them to the club. "Brilliant!" you tell him. "You have fifteen pens! Now you can recieve the secret Pen Fifteen club sign!" Taking the biggest, blackest, and most indelible of your collection, you then write "PEN 15" in big letters on said kids hand. Gorgeous in its simplicity, and great for fucking with the sort of kid who really DID collect scented rubbers or unusual pencil sharpeners.
(PS: I believe there is already a submission for the Pen Fifteen club somewhere in the archives. However, mine is better, and I'd be willing to go head to head with the other contributor. Good luck in the swimsuit round.)
(PS: I believe there is already a submission for the Pen Fifteen club somewhere in the archives. However, mine is better, and I'd be willing to go head to head with the other contributor. Good luck in the swimsuit round.)
"Ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner ner NER ner,
ner ner ner ner NER ner,
ner ne ner ne nernenernener..."
Exciting, futuristic BBC computer game which put you in first person mode to do stuff like feed 4 dragons, one of whom wouldn't eat doughnuts, one of whom had to have an apple, that sort of thing. Can't remember much else about it, other than;
a)anything on the computer was brilliant and therefore GG must have been brilliant
b)the ear-fuckingly loud music (see above) that indicated that some arse-licker was getting a go on the computer while you were still reading The Village With Three Fucking Corners.
ner ner ner ner NER ner,
ner ne ner ne nernenernener..."
Exciting, futuristic BBC computer game which put you in first person mode to do stuff like feed 4 dragons, one of whom wouldn't eat doughnuts, one of whom had to have an apple, that sort of thing. Can't remember much else about it, other than;
a)anything on the computer was brilliant and therefore GG must have been brilliant
b)the ear-fuckingly loud music (see above) that indicated that some arse-licker was getting a go on the computer while you were still reading The Village With Three Fucking Corners.
Thing I accidentally said when under extreme pressure, faced with gang of big, hard older girls all shouting stuff at me.
Though it was embarrassing at the time, I have since realised, from the books of Roddy Doyle etc. that "Fuck up" is a perfectly valid and pleasing insult, combining Fuck Off, Shut Up, and, as a bonus, expressing the hope that the person it's said to will 'Fuck Up' in their future endeavours. With hindsight, I SO win, you whores.
Though it was embarrassing at the time, I have since realised, from the books of Roddy Doyle etc. that "Fuck up" is a perfectly valid and pleasing insult, combining Fuck Off, Shut Up, and, as a bonus, expressing the hope that the person it's said to will 'Fuck Up' in their future endeavours. With hindsight, I SO win, you whores.
Nothing to do with Spectrums, but a basic, more edgy version of those rubbish Choose Your Own Adventure books your mum got. How 'Go to' worked was, in your Tricolore / History Now! / Whatever textbook, some benevolent genius would have written 'go to page 15' . Then on page 15, they would have written 'go to page 168', and so on, repeating the process, taking you on a thrilling journey through the text book, back and forth, hither and yon, always aware that you could be busted by the teacher at any time for being on the wrong page. At the end of the journey, the connisseur would have lead you to a fine rendering of a spunking cock or simply the words "Gayers flick through books."
The crap 'Go-to' er will merely direct you back to the first page number you started on, making the less obeservant participant go round and round in a circle, although this, to me, was a mark of cuntishness.
The crap 'Go-to' er will merely direct you back to the first page number you started on, making the less obeservant participant go round and round in a circle, although this, to me, was a mark of cuntishness.
In America (or American films at least) they call it 'brown bagging', and it's quite a hip thing to take your lunch into school in a paper bag. In this country, a Kwiksave bag (or worse, the plastic bag the bread for your sandwich came in), marks you as the worst kind of pikey. Not like a good pikey, the kind who’s mum doesn’t pay the rent but keeps her kids in Reeboks and nose studs and consumer durables, but the rubbish kind of pikey who can’t afford school trips and has to stay behind at school pissing about with bean bags in the gym with a dinner lady.
The moral of this story is: buy your fucking kids lunchboxes.
The moral of this story is: buy your fucking kids lunchboxes.
The GAY-me (pronounced game)
A game in which you define how gay someone is by the things that they like. To whit:
"You are so gay, your favourite singer is Marvin GAY-e"., or
"Your favourite programme by Jeremy Beadle is GAY-me For a Laugh.", or
"Your favourite childrens book is Anne of Green GAY-bles.", or
"Your favourite song is I Will Survive by Gloria GAY-nor."
Repeat until you run out of examples. So far I have 17. The most beautiful thing about this game is when someone gets over-excited and accidentally says something that a gay person might actually like, for example "Your favourite magazine is GAY Times*. Oh, hang on..."
(*All gay people like the Gay Times, by the way. It's their favourite.)
A game in which you define how gay someone is by the things that they like. To whit:
"You are so gay, your favourite singer is Marvin GAY-e"., or
"Your favourite programme by Jeremy Beadle is GAY-me For a Laugh.", or
"Your favourite childrens book is Anne of Green GAY-bles.", or
"Your favourite song is I Will Survive by Gloria GAY-nor."
Repeat until you run out of examples. So far I have 17. The most beautiful thing about this game is when someone gets over-excited and accidentally says something that a gay person might actually like, for example "Your favourite magazine is GAY Times*. Oh, hang on..."
(*All gay people like the Gay Times, by the way. It's their favourite.)
Ah, well my name is Nick Hunt, which, whilst not forming any anally related anagrams, does provide endless hours of entertainment. Prick Cunt, Dick Cunt, Nick Cunt, Cunt Cunt, you name it, I'll have heard them all. All of them. Every. Single. One.
(You missed "Lick Cunt." Susan xx)
(You missed "Lick Cunt." Susan xx)
Series of music books, filled with retarded songs that kids were meant to sing instead of hymns during assembly in our Godless primary school. The only tunes I can remember from it were:
Jiggle jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Little sack o' sugar I could eat you up.
And
I went down to a party/
It was me and Ben and Mack/
And before I knew what happened/
I got an itching on my back/
Scratch, scratch my back.
Sure, the music was safe from the oppressive spectre of religion, but boyhowdy did it suck. Why couldn't I have gone to a Catholic school? Knee socks, kilts, Latin and enforced cunnlingus, surrounded by all that fabulous stained glass and gigantic gold bleeding Jesuses. Hosannah! Hosaaaaaaaannah! I'd have LOVED that. And nuns. Nuns are way cool.
Jiggle jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Jiggle jiggle jiggle/
Little sack o' sugar I could eat you up.
And
I went down to a party/
It was me and Ben and Mack/
And before I knew what happened/
I got an itching on my back/
Scratch, scratch my back.
Sure, the music was safe from the oppressive spectre of religion, but boyhowdy did it suck. Why couldn't I have gone to a Catholic school? Knee socks, kilts, Latin and enforced cunnlingus, surrounded by all that fabulous stained glass and gigantic gold bleeding Jesuses. Hosannah! Hosaaaaaaaannah! I'd have LOVED that. And nuns. Nuns are way cool.
Thing you were supposed to get when you had shamed yourself in some way. As in "Get your dubbins" or the sing-song version "get your dubbins, fresh from the Daily Ma-il!"
A West Country version of "gutted". West Country viewers, if you know what a dubbin is and why you get them from the Daily Mail, write in.
A West Country version of "gutted". West Country viewers, if you know what a dubbin is and why you get them from the Daily Mail, write in.
Birmingham also has the delightfully named places of Camp Hill, Lickey End, Acocks Green and Shaftmoor Lane. Hours of fun.
Town planners do it deliberately you know. Rude-sounding place names are what made this country the Great Britain that it is. Ah, I can almost hear the sound of a suggestively brassy trombone and Esther Ranzen chuckling her way through a link to a piece on cot death. Nostalgia!
Town planners do it deliberately you know. Rude-sounding place names are what made this country the Great Britain that it is. Ah, I can almost hear the sound of a suggestively brassy trombone and Esther Ranzen chuckling her way through a link to a piece on cot death. Nostalgia!
Fog, The
Book by James Herbert and most peoples first experience of breathing takingly, eye poppingly, gobsmackingly, hardcore pornography. (If you are 11)
Fog, The could be read in public with total impunity, as it’s cover in no way belied the graphic, frank depictions of adult lovemaking that could be found within.
The only problem with Fog, The was Herbert’s use of sex as metaphor. Herbert explores the idea of sex as celebration of life, with death as the great disclosure, revealing the lonliness and horror of life’s seedy underbelly with the literary device of contrast. ("In the midst of life we are in death", and so on.) To demonstrate life’s rich tapestry of light and dark, pleasures and woes, sex is used to throw death into sharp relief, and vice versa.
This means that just as a sex scene was getting to the really filthy bit, the character would chop off their own cock with a pair of gardening shears, or throw themselves into the sea on top of a load of corpses after a big lezzing session.
Most psychosexual dsyfuntions can be attributed to early childhood exposure to Fog, The.
(See also: American Psycho, Judy Blume’s Forever)
Book by James Herbert and most peoples first experience of breathing takingly, eye poppingly, gobsmackingly, hardcore pornography. (If you are 11)
Fog, The could be read in public with total impunity, as it’s cover in no way belied the graphic, frank depictions of adult lovemaking that could be found within.
The only problem with Fog, The was Herbert’s use of sex as metaphor. Herbert explores the idea of sex as celebration of life, with death as the great disclosure, revealing the lonliness and horror of life’s seedy underbelly with the literary device of contrast. ("In the midst of life we are in death", and so on.) To demonstrate life’s rich tapestry of light and dark, pleasures and woes, sex is used to throw death into sharp relief, and vice versa.
This means that just as a sex scene was getting to the really filthy bit, the character would chop off their own cock with a pair of gardening shears, or throw themselves into the sea on top of a load of corpses after a big lezzing session.
Most psychosexual dsyfuntions can be attributed to early childhood exposure to Fog, The.
(See also: American Psycho, Judy Blume’s Forever)
(never, never break friends/if you do/you'll catch the flu/and that will be the end of you.)
So we all know this one, but interestingly enough, the popular comedian Adam Bloom genuinely believes he invented this rhyme, in a playground in Richmond in 1977. No one else knew it before he invented it, and he will accept no argument to the contrary.
So we all know this one, but interestingly enough, the popular comedian Adam Bloom genuinely believes he invented this rhyme, in a playground in Richmond in 1977. No one else knew it before he invented it, and he will accept no argument to the contrary.
Also - exploding pigeon. Mash bread up with bicarbonate of soda and feed liberally to pigeons (or any bird for that matter). As birds cannot fart or burp the build up of gas will cause the flying vermin to explode.
(In my opinion this would have vastly improved the cutesy "Feed The Birds" bit in Mary Poppins. Those two annoying kids dripping with tiny pigeon entrails, feathers in their hair and their screams punctuated only by the sound "coo, coo…ka-boom! Splat! " would have gone some way to cutting through the saccharine.)
(In my opinion this would have vastly improved the cutesy "Feed The Birds" bit in Mary Poppins. Those two annoying kids dripping with tiny pigeon entrails, feathers in their hair and their screams punctuated only by the sound "coo, coo…ka-boom! Splat! " would have gone some way to cutting through the saccharine.)
Start of a Muslim chant. Teachers and Muslim pupils react badly if it is sung to the tune of 'Everybody Dance Now' by C&C Music Factory.
Sorry to crash your entry darlin’, but even us mighty editors can’t submit new stories while the backlog remains so big. (It’s my only motivation for wading through most of the fliddy tat we get sent, I can tell you.) (Just joshing, Log thinks it’ll sex up the site a bit if I’m all stern and authoritative. Fucking perv.) Anyway, our school consisted of about two hundred white kids and one black girl. The teachers were afraid to ask her what sort of "black" she was, in case they looked racist, so to play it safe they got us to learn about all the other religions in the world that weren’t Anglo-Saxon, the better to acclimatise her to our culture. This culminated in an RE lesson where we were told to split up and write a song about one religion per group. Our group came up with the wildly popular "S.I.K.H". Sung to the tune of YMCA, it went:
S.I.K.H, it’s fun to be an S.I.K.H/
You can worship five Ks/
Wear a turban on your head/
If you don’t want to do that, be a Jew instead, S.I.K.H…
If memory serves correct I played the letter H. -Susan.
Sorry to crash your entry darlin’, but even us mighty editors can’t submit new stories while the backlog remains so big. (It’s my only motivation for wading through most of the fliddy tat we get sent, I can tell you.) (Just joshing, Log thinks it’ll sex up the site a bit if I’m all stern and authoritative. Fucking perv.) Anyway, our school consisted of about two hundred white kids and one black girl. The teachers were afraid to ask her what sort of "black" she was, in case they looked racist, so to play it safe they got us to learn about all the other religions in the world that weren’t Anglo-Saxon, the better to acclimatise her to our culture. This culminated in an RE lesson where we were told to split up and write a song about one religion per group. Our group came up with the wildly popular "S.I.K.H". Sung to the tune of YMCA, it went:
S.I.K.H, it’s fun to be an S.I.K.H/
You can worship five Ks/
Wear a turban on your head/
If you don’t want to do that, be a Jew instead, S.I.K.H…
If memory serves correct I played the letter H. -Susan.
We had a kid in our school whose older brother died of a heroin overdose. But he had to leave because of two songs; the re-worked intro to Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep ("Where's ya brother gone, where's ya brother gone…") and "Staying Alive" by the late, great Bee Gees.
Tut, the insensitivity of youth. Everyone knows that if someone’s brother dies of a heroin overdose (it was big in the Eighties) you must perform the entire rap from Grange Hill’s "Just Say No!", preferably at the memorial assembly, or, simply rework the lyrics from the Flash Gordon theme into a cautionary message. "Smack! Ahhhhhhhh!" –Susan.
Tut, the insensitivity of youth. Everyone knows that if someone’s brother dies of a heroin overdose (it was big in the Eighties) you must perform the entire rap from Grange Hill’s "Just Say No!", preferably at the memorial assembly, or, simply rework the lyrics from the Flash Gordon theme into a cautionary message. "Smack! Ahhhhhhhh!" –Susan.
Also a game where one friend presses a pre-licked coin onto a second friends forehead and encourages him to dislodge it by whacking himself repeatedly on the back of the head. But the coin is really in the first friends hand, you see, not stuck to the forehead, so the second friend is left slapping the back of his head in vain, resembling the late Eric Morcombe in a state of arousal.
Yes, yes, thankyou. We hope you're feeling VERY ASHAMED now.
(Sent in by RL M, judged by Susan.)
(Sent in by RL M, judged by Susan.)
Short for remedial, and therefore a common insult. Even the teachers used this one.
Extra mileage could be garnered by grasping the handles of an invisible motorbike and starting it up, as though on a cold day. "Remmm. Remmememem. REMemememEMEMEMEM (twist throttle) REEEEMMMM! Reeeeeeemmm, reeeeeemmmm, rerrrrmmmmm." And so on. This was not insulting the mentally ill, it was merely making motorbike noises near them. Even God would find it hard to spot the hidden sneer.
Extra mileage could be garnered by grasping the handles of an invisible motorbike and starting it up, as though on a cold day. "Remmm. Remmememem. REMemememEMEMEMEM (twist throttle) REEEEMMMM! Reeeeeeemmm, reeeeeemmmm, rerrrrmmmmm." And so on. This was not insulting the mentally ill, it was merely making motorbike noises near them. Even God would find it hard to spot the hidden sneer.
Um, I'm sorry Dyfrig. I have now realised when you abuse others, you are only abusing yourself. My bad. If this was really school, now would be the time when the teacher revealed my parents are divorcing, or I've been bullied for not starting my period yet, and everyone would go "aaaaah" in understanding. Shall we all hug now?
The character of Elmo hilariously opened his own wine bar, creatively named "Elmo Putney's Wine Bar". Thus, any place where more than one fat person congregated became known as Elmo Putney's Wine Bar. Which, to be fair, would be quite a sophisticated place to hang out for a bunch of overweight 12-year-olds. Certainly classier than "the queue for the ice cream van" or "the spot outside the nurses office where you pick up inhalers".
The Brand New Monty Python Bok came with a slip off dust jacket that covered what was really printed on the book beneath - the cover for a spoof magazine called "Tits 'n Bums: A Weekly Look at Church Architecture". Not only was this a great gag but it did indeed feature a picture of thrillingly blobby 70's breasts (and bums). I would have wanked myself raw to it, if only I'd known how to.
Sadly I soon lost the slip on "safety" dust cover and had to cover the tits and bums with stickers from Smash Hits, lest my mum discovered my filthy shame.
Sadly I soon lost the slip on "safety" dust cover and had to cover the tits and bums with stickers from Smash Hits, lest my mum discovered my filthy shame.
For YOU maybe, Matt. *Winks*
This reminded me of the joke: A man called Mr. Wankbreak starts a new job at a factory. One day his wife phones the foreman and says "Do you have a Wankbreak there?" "Wankbreak?" says the foreman, "we don’t even get a tea break!" Please yourselves.
Has anyone ever come up with a satisfactory name for that paper device thing kids (girls mainly) made to do fortune telling? You'd fold the paper in a certain way to make a pyramid thing you could stick your fingers in. Then you'd approach your testee and ask them, say, their favourite colour. "B-L-U-E" you'd spell out and do something complicated with the paper. The paper thingum would now look a little like vulcan handfanny (q.v). The testee would pick a number from one of the flaps, lift the flap, and it would say something like "You love Luke Goss" or "Your tits smell."
If you have any idea what the fuck I'm blathering about, please write in. You are probably a girl and probably owned a mood ring when you were young.
If you have any idea what the fuck I'm blathering about, please write in. You are probably a girl and probably owned a mood ring when you were young.
ha ha, Log's a GIRL!
Descriptive of eyes after smoking first, illicit marijuana cigarette. No, your mum won't be fooled by you sucking a polo and spraying your jumper with Lynx.
Our new resident hermaphrodite, Lee Colclough! Give him/her a round of applause!
Leopold Bloom, we'd like to ask you to be PL's resident egghead. We will call you "Professor" and imagine all your posts to come from a supple leather armchair. (Like Roald Dahl in Tales of the Unexpected.) This is based purely on you having latin lessons and being called "Leopold Bloom". Nothing else. Your job will be to bring a level of class to the site, and to make occasional, ribald double entendres. Hope this is ok with you.
Sorry Andy. Mood rings are mood rings in the same way that X-ray specs are X-ray specs i.e not at all. Mood rings, yes, claimed to change with your mood, but would change quick enough by being clamped in a sweaty child hand or licked. Rubbish.
If you've seen the film "My Girl" with Maculay Culkin, you'll know what a mood ring is. You'll also be a girl. Or a gay. Either way you'll already know what a mood ring is, and your wife should really start asking questions about those copies of Mens Health.
If you've seen the film "My Girl" with Maculay Culkin, you'll know what a mood ring is. You'll also be a girl. Or a gay. Either way you'll already know what a mood ring is, and your wife should really start asking questions about those copies of Mens Health.
We don't use the word "genius" round here too often, but there's at least two editors on this site who want to have sex with *points up* this anonymous contributor.
Anyone who grows up in a crap town miles from the city will know the excitement of discovering, on a Saturday excursion into Bristol, that some pubs are gay pubs. Pubs for real gay people, to be gay in. We were agog. In the end, we dared Joe to run in, and run out again. Just to see what happened, like. I think we thought it would be something like running into a crowded chicken shed, and Joe would come flying out followed by a burst of feathers, glitter, and a gaggle of irate, clucking homosexual men. This didn't happen. Sadly.
I know someone who still signs off text messages (a thing which tells you who the sender is anyway) with "JD". I think he's hoping it'll catch on, in a sexy, Jack Daniels, James Dean sort of way.
I hope he doesn't read this. Sorry James.
I hope he doesn't read this. Sorry James.
That's coz Gaidsy sounds like an effeminate gang member on Grange Hill, Log. The one who'd be first to dress as the Spice Girls for charity week.
Playground Law in a nutshell, Ladies and Gentlemen.
Thank you to the anonymous user who reminded us that, yes, girls did used to play with elastic. Metres-long bits of clothing elastic, for strange jumping/falling-over purposes. The ritual began with putting the elastic around the ankles, and from thereon things got dark and scary. Songs were involved.
that's not time, *penski. Time isn't that sticky.
Don't be silly Phil! We know exactly how tragically sad you are.
Oh dear, a brassy, Two Ronnies style "Waaaah-waaaaahhhh" sound is filling the website.
Oh dear, a brassy, Two Ronnies style "Waaaah-waaaaahhhh" sound is filling the website.
Trebor Mints are a minty bit stronger. Stick them up your bum and they last a bit longer.
This is true.
This is true.
Oh I didn't mean me, hon. Log will bum anything with a pulse and the only thing stronger than Phil's steely heterosexuality is his intense dislike for me. Both have nice tits though.
Uh...as far as I know, "Pakis", (in either the crap 70's sense of anyone with brown skin, or indeed the US/Australian sense, which is merely an abbreviation for someone from Pakistan, with no racial slur to it at all (talk to an Australian about cricket to hear this first hand "we thrashed the Pakis" etc.)) aren't prone to falling out of wheelchairs. Unless they are disabled in that way themselves, of course.
No one is asking you to find this story funny. It merely reports an incident. Not only does your argument about "pakis" make no sense, but your attempt to take the moral high ground by pointing out (like, wow) the word mongoloid could be considered offensive was utterly negated by your use of the word "cunt." There is a large group of people who would consider that to be misogynist in the extreme. You big hairy twat.
No one is asking you to find this story funny. It merely reports an incident. Not only does your argument about "pakis" make no sense, but your attempt to take the moral high ground by pointing out (like, wow) the word mongoloid could be considered offensive was utterly negated by your use of the word "cunt." There is a large group of people who would consider that to be misogynist in the extreme. You big hairy twat.
Our form tutor (in a state comp, not a fancy Latin-speaking grammar school) constantly used the expression "In Loco Parentis". As in "Right sunshine, while your mum and dad aren't here, I'm in loco parentis so if you dick about you'll have me to answer to."
He was ex-army and had a tash, though, so his twattiness was a given, even without the Latin.
He was ex-army and had a tash, though, so his twattiness was a given, even without the Latin.
1. Brand of orange. The advert's slogan was "small ones are more juicy - naturally" accompanied by jug-heavy Mungo Jerry hit "In The Summertime". Therefore,
2. Thing to say to someone with small but perfectly acceptable breasts.
3. Also can be said post-sex to a man whose small penis has just saturated your duvet, surprising you both. "Why, Mr Patterson! Small ones are more juicy!"
"Naturally," replies Mr Patterson,laughing.
2. Thing to say to someone with small but perfectly acceptable breasts.
3. Also can be said post-sex to a man whose small penis has just saturated your duvet, surprising you both. "Why, Mr Patterson! Small ones are more juicy!"
"Naturally," replies Mr Patterson,laughing.
Childish riposte to a positive statement about anything at all.
"I really like Brush Strokes."
"Well why don't you marry it then?"
"Would you like a crisp?"
"Yes please."
"Well why don't you marry it then?"
The only possible retort to this is "perhaps I will".
"I really like Brush Strokes."
"Well why don't you marry it then?"
"Would you like a crisp?"
"Yes please."
"Well why don't you marry it then?"
The only possible retort to this is "perhaps I will".
Poem given in response to the question "what's the time?"
Half past nine!
Hang your knickers on the line!
When they're dry,
Bring them in!
Put them in the biscuit tin!
Eat a biscuit!
Eat a cake!
Eat your knickers by mistake!
May be met with "no, really. What's the time?" This means they want to hear the poem again.
Half past nine!
Hang your knickers on the line!
When they're dry,
Bring them in!
Put them in the biscuit tin!
Eat a biscuit!
Eat a cake!
Eat your knickers by mistake!
May be met with "no, really. What's the time?" This means they want to hear the poem again.
Not everyone who works with, or takes an interest in children is a paedophile.
The man from the Werther's Original advert is not a paedophile. Older male children's TV presenters were not paedophiles. PE Teachers who made you take showers were not necessarily paedophiles.
Labelling such people as paedophiles is not only lazy, obvious and weak, it also denigrates the comic potential of the real paedophiles, like Gary Glitter, and your dad.
The man from the Werther's Original advert is not a paedophile. Older male children's TV presenters were not paedophiles. PE Teachers who made you take showers were not necessarily paedophiles.
Labelling such people as paedophiles is not only lazy, obvious and weak, it also denigrates the comic potential of the real paedophiles, like Gary Glitter, and your dad.