| Report for Alexander Po | |
|---|---|
| Approved stories | 10 |
| Rejected stories (hidden) | 5 |
| Deleted stories (hidden) | 15 |
| Summary | Could Try Harder |
That's not what it is at all. A rainbow kiss is an immediate post-blowjob frenchie, with the semen swirled between the mouths of the amorous young lovers. I know this to be true, because an older boy from another school told me on camp.
(Thanks to Dr Ringpiece for pointing out that this practice is actually called snowballing.)
(Thanks to Dr Ringpiece for pointing out that this practice is actually called snowballing.)
It was a well known fact that the devil could be summoned by placing a 10p on a grave at midnight and dancing round it ten times. We were too scared to do this, however, and instead tried using a green fruit pastille and dancing round it five times at midday. Nothing happened.
During primary school Christmas dinner in the mid-to-late 80's, it was customary to announce "I now have the honour of eating a potato" in a Margaret Thatcher voice before stuffing an entire hot roast potato into our mouths. We would maintan an expression of pained satisfaction as steam shot out from our ears.
A more elaborate and good-natured version of simply scrawling a cock on your neighbour's work. Cut a corner segment of blank paper and add your crudely-drawn phallus. When your classmate's back is turned, place your corner of paper over the corner of his work, with a carefully-placed ruler hiding the join. After your friend has noticed the ruination of his work and let fly with a suitable outraged outburst, you can slide the paper away and reveal that it was all a joke. Relief generally diffuses anger, and a jolly good laugh is had by all.
Christian puppet who toured Westcountry primary school assemblies in a suitcase carried by a variety of human "hosts", most notably a portly woman named Dawn. Every year, Horace would emergy sleepily from the suitcase and crack the same joke about thinking he was at a zoo, on account of all the monkeys present. He and Dawn would then play a version of Biblical hangman, and it was customary for Dawn to pack Horace away, pretending to shut his legs in the suitcase as she did so. It was about this time I stopped attending Sunday School.
There was a boy at my school called Dickon Hares. I don't know what else to say about him, other than it really was his name, and it did sound exactly as you imagined it would when read out in the register.
It's hard to know how soon is "too soon", and it's perhaps fair to say that we didn't know, one particularly sombre morning when we were called into assembly to be told of the death of our science teacher in a boating accident. His name was Mr Rowbottom.
During our production of 'African Jigsaw', it was not uncommon for assemblies to be gently interrupted by scarily-realistic papier-mache zebra heads peering inquisitively around the curtain.
During that nostalgic period of mid-secondary-school when primary school-level humour suddenly becomes acceptable again, it's not uncommon to remember the golden rule of primary school, which is that it's OK to get your uniforms dirty on Friday because they can be washed over the weekend. Cue twenty blazer-clad grammar school students doing what amounted, really, to not much more than rolling about in mud.