|
Let's get right back to some more stories on the mental institutions in Alabama in the early-mid 70s! The Family This is the story I'd originally thought of, as it was my first "What the Christ!?" moment. For a while my mother worked in intake for the institution she worked at. Which basically meant that she was part of a team that decided who was admitted into the facility and who was not. One story that stuck out in her mind, and mine as well, is a time when she traveled to rural southern Alabama to consider a 14 year old boy for intake. They roll up to this cabin...shack thing. Shackin? Cabshack? It really doesn't matter, it was situated on a cotton farm and it's this dinky log building that's 3 feet off the ground, stuck up on cinder blocks with really wobbly looking cinder block stairs that lead up to a corrugated tin door. The roof's made of the same stuff, and even from the outside mom can see that the roof doesn't meet the walls quite right. There's an outhouse round back, as the place clearly has no plumbing or electricity. They knock on the door and an elderly black man comes to the door. They speak with him for a few minutes about why they are hear, and come to the conclusion that he's of perfectly average intelligence, while uneducated. He ushers my mom into their house. Even without electricity there's a sort of dim twilight in the house because it was put together so badly. Sunlight streams between the boards of the floor, from the chinks in the walls, and through the gaps between the roof and the walls. It smells like poo poo and unwashed bodies in the house, just this foul odor that pervades the entire one-room structure. There's poo poo smeared on the floors and the walls. There are about ten people in the house, the two adults and a variety of children. The mother is clearly mentally retarded, she's pretty high functioning but no where near as smart as Forrest Gump, if you get my meaning. She's currently in the process of scrubbing the poop off the floor. I'm not even sure she was smart enough to consent to sex with her partner, but she'd obviously had a lot of sex to produce 8 children. They ranged in age from 14 to 2 or 3. The boy, who they had originally come for, was prone to violent rages and the parents couldn't control him anymore, he was eventually accepted to the institution after this visit. All 7 of his brothers and sisters are mentally retarded, the elder boy being the highest functioning of them all. None are as intelligent as the mother, some are bedridden (the source of all that poo poo). What my mother remembers best are the sounds, the grunting and moaning that filled the whole room. There's only a few beds, and some of the children must have to sleep on the floor because they cannot squish in beside their brothers and sisters. I've tried imagining that life was like for that father. He's one average man surrounded entirely by the mentally retarded. His house is disgusting, he's beyond poor, and he just keeps knocking up his wife over and over again. I can't imagine having sex in a room like that, surrounded by your pitiful offspring, with the full and complete knowledge that every child you conceive with that woman will be retarded and will have to be sent off to the state when they become too difficult to handle. It's the essence of 
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 21:39
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 25, 2024 12:34 |
|
|
Breaking up with an ex. I told her we had to talk. She said cool, I'll meet you at your dorm. My roommate lets her in. I come home, she's sitting there smiling. I tell her we're breaking up. She says, "Yeah, I figured." We talked it out, lot of emotions on both sides, I take her home. She goes into her room and she becomes an entirely different person out of nowhere. She starts throwing things at her mirrors, smashing poo poo into pieces, falls into the bath tub crying and making sounds I've NEVER heard. I leave her in the care of one of her roommates and I leave (it seemed the best thing to do). I get back home and try to turn on my computer to get some work done and get my mind off things. Doesn't work. Huh. I check the back of my computer and EVERY loving WIRE IS CUT. At this point I'm thinking, "Oh god no..." I start going through all the stuff in my room. All of my clothes, slashed. Some of my favorite DVD's, slashed with a box cutter. I look at the computer itself, it's drenched in ginger ale. My loving mattress, cut open and gutted. It was all concealed. She had been sitting there the entire time, smiling, as if none of it happened. Here's the kicker...she had only been in that room for five minutes when all of this took place. I wasn't aware that any human being was capable of such mass, concealed carnage in such a short period of time. Then again...I got to give her credit...she played it off like a master criminal till she went bonkers back at her place.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 21:40
|
|
|
JibbaJabberwocky posted:Let's get right back to some more stories on the mental institutions in Alabama in the early-mid 70s! Your mom is a stronger person than I could ever be. I think that if I ever walked into a situation like that I'd walk out after 5 minutes and develop alcoholism. Jesus christ.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 21:46
|
|
|
Fran Lebowitz posted:All God's CHILDREN are not beautiful. Most of God's CHILDREN are, in fact, barely presentable.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 21:50
|
|
|
JibbaJabberwocky posted:When I saw this thread, I knew it was time to dredge up the childhood memories I have courtesy of my parents. Both my mom and dad have their P.h.D. in psychology, they graduated in the 70's from Troy University, broke as gently caress, and immediately went to work for the state of Alabama. At that time, if you worked for the state, every year they would pay back a little bit of your student loans, so my parents only did this until they were debt free. They worked at a state run mental institution (I wish I knew the name) and had a lot of stories for me as a child. This is basically the #1 reason I want nothing to do with the mentally ill/retarded. They creep me the ever-loving gently caress out, THANKS MOM AND DAD. Did your folks work at Bryce Hospital in Tuscaloosa? I'd be interested in hearing more stories. Anyway, here's my contribution. This happened just after July 4th weekend in 2008. We were driving back from a vacation and stopped at a rest stop for a little while. I was washing my hands in the ladies' room and out of the corner of my eye saw another woman standing next to me. "The doctors in Memphis said they'd never seen anything like this before," she announced. I glanced over, seeing she was looking over at me, sharing this wonderful information. She had lifted up her blouse, revealing a horrible, nasty-looking infection across her upper torso. "I had a yeast infection that started in my lungs and is spreading out to the rest of my body." WTC. Quite grossed out by this graphic sight, I moved over to the hand dryers. They muffled out some of her story, which she continued to share. As politely as I could, I wished Yeast Infection Lady the best in her recovery and headed outside. She headed out with me, sharing more of her story. It involved visiting doctors in the Washington D.C. area several days earlier for this same infection. She was headed to another doctor in her hometown (sadly, very close to where I lived) to get further treatment. My  BOYFRIEND was waiting outside, so we could get back on the road. As soon as I spied him, I gave him a look indicating we needed to get the hell out of there at once. Yeast Infection Lady spotted him and at once mistook his haircut for a military-style haircut. She abruptly ended her story and hurried over to him. She starting telling him that she had been at a rally for the troops a few days before in Washington D.C. and what the organization she was affiliated with did to help support them. Would he be interested in helping them out because it was for the troops, blah blah blah. He told her no and we both hurried away. We drove off in disbelief over what had just happened.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 22:53
|
|
|
Okay I'm back and I think this will be my last post. I'm going to cover the lighter stories now that I've dropped some gross, awful bombs on top of you all. Some stories from my dad now! And okay, I lied, this first one is pretty gross, and the second one too. He worked with a lot of people with more common disorders. There was a guy who would eat everything that wasn't nailed down, and even if it was nailed down he was likely to eat the nails too. He had to wear a straight jacket at all times after he had had SO MANY surgeries to remove the poo poo that he ate, that his body probably wouldn't be able to heal from another stomach surgery. And there was a little boy who had to wear a football helmet and boxing gloves (I know, right) because he would chew the flesh off his fingers, even down to the bone. He was also prone to biting staff, hence the helmet. As a kid, this next story was the scariest one to me. I don't know why but its mostly the reason I can't handle the insane/mentally retarded. The Mother There was a woman at the facility who was just as profoundly retarded as the brothers from the earlier story. She was practically an oversized baby, wore diapers and lived in a giant adult-sized crib. My mother was reading her information one day, and realized she had been admitted at the age of 5 and had been in that facility her entire life. She had also had 5 abortions. Count them, 5. This woman was IN NO WAY capable of consenting, she couldn't even hold her head up, let alone speak. Some aide had been loving her, maybe it was even more than one aide considering she'd been pregnant over a span of 15 years. Think about that one. It happens a lot by the way, a whole lot in institutions like that. The Circus I'm not sure what administrator thought this would be a good plan, but my father and a lady aide took a group of the better behaved men and women to the circus. None of them were particularly high functioning, but they certainly weren't violent and were "present" enough to enjoy the circus. Things seemed to be going pretty well at first, the patients were enjoying the elephants and seeing the tigers. They were as excited as little kids, all clapping and pointing. And then the clowns came out. None of them could handle the clowns, they became very upset. It started with an older man, but the idea caught on among all of the patients. He began to strip off his clothing and throw it at the performers. I don't think I need to express how gross this would be, for the little kids at the show to see a very fat, retarded man stripping naked and throwing his clothes at the clowns. The other patients followed suit. My dad is not a small guy, and he's certainly not a pushover, but he and the aide could not possibly keep all 6 adult patients in their clothes once they all got riled up. They had to leave the show early, and that was the first and last time they let anyone go see the circus. The Little Old Lady Where my parents worked, there was a little old lady who was some sort of nurse or administrative aide. She always carried a clipboard and recorded...something from each patient. She worked in the violent patient ward. Anyone else who went up there had to take two, big burly aides with them to protect them from the patients, who while generally well-behaved could have times when they became very violent. Certainly violent enough to kill a little old lady, who barely stood 5ft tall and had to be over 65 years old. She was prim and mild mannered, always had her grey hair in a tight bun. No one had any idea how she did it. People figured that she had worked there long enough that none of the patients upstairs would give her any problems. But even the new violent patients left her alone. All she had to do was walk into the room and everyone would press themselves to the walls, and refuse to make eye contact. My father asked her one day, and she seemed surprised, as if she hadn't known that everyone noticed how they all behaved themselves around her. She reached under her clip-board and pulled out an 8inch, wickedly sharp hat pin. "I only ever have to jab them once, if they give me any trouble, and they never give me any trouble again." I always thought she was a badass, but she was probably pretty for the patients. At least she gave those burly aides a break.edit: Yes my parents were amazing, I think they only barely put up with it until their loans were paid, and they left as soon as possible. Neither of them work specifically in Psychology anymore. I don't think it was Bryce, but it might have been. I was under the impression it was somewhere in south Alabama. JibbaJabberwocky has a new favorite as of 23:16 on Apr 11, 2011 |
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:01
|
|
|
Fiction D posted:Breaking up with an ex. I told her we had to talk. She said cool, I'll meet you at your dorm. My roommate lets her in. I come home, she's sitting there smiling. I tell her we're breaking up. She says, "Yeah, I figured." We talked it out, lot of emotions on both sides, I take her home. She goes into her room and she becomes an entirely different person out of nowhere. She starts throwing things at her mirrors, smashing poo poo into pieces, falls into the bath tub crying and making sounds I've NEVER heard. I leave her in the care of one of her roommates and I leave (it seemed the best thing to do). Im confused. How did she do all this with your roommate in the room?
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:01
|
|
|
For about two years, I'd been living in a really excellent little bachelor pad basement apartment in a six-family building in the middle of Brooklyn. $600 a month, which is unheard of in Brooklyn, so I really wanted to keep it. I'm a relatively neat person. I vacuum, mop, do laundry, never leave dirty dishes in the sink, all that domestic poo poo. So when I first saw a roach, I didn't think much of it. It's a below-grade apartment attached to a garage -- you'll see a bug once in a while. But between that first sighting and a week later, that fucker multiplied like... like roaches. Nothing multiplies like a roach. Comparing it to something else just weakens the point. I called an exterminator and was told the earliest he could come would be in a week. What a lovely, lovely week that was. Every time I picked something up, three or four roaches would dart out from under it. I had to shake out my clothing before putting things on, and I never opened the fridge for fear they'd run in (or already WERE in). I put down traps and poison gels and all that stuff, and it didn't make a dent. I couldn't sleep, I'd get awoken by the feel of hairy little legs on my skin. Half the time I think it was just a phantom sensation because I was so freaked out. Who knows. The roaches had stopped hiding. They knew who owned the place. Finally, the exterminator showed up. He was a bandy-legged little guy who took two steps into the apartment while the lights were still off, sniffed the air, and said "You got roaches." He did a thorough examination "of the joint" (seriously) and proclaimed this wasn't the nest. I didn't have piles of food out or anything that would attract them, so this was spillover from another apartment. There was only one apartment adjacent to mine, so we went upstairs to make a neighborly housecall. This apartment was rented by Phil. Lemme tell ya about Phil. Phil was about 400 pounds of hair and grease in a rough potato shape. He wore coke-bottle glasses, boxers that might have been white at one point, and, if you were lucky, a robe. I could tell you about his wife, but anything you've extrapolated about her so far is probably spot on. He was a neighborhood institution, as he would spend roughly 14 hours a day squatting on the stoop of our building, nursing a six pack and telling you when the mail came. This was my first time seeing the interior of Phil's apartment, and when the door cracked open - not wide open, just cracked open - the smell made us recoil. A wave of brown air rolled out. Brown. Air. The air was brown. The air was visibly brown. Brown air. Have I made the point clear? Phil and Ms. Phil were living in noxious vapors, right over my head. They let us in without even a hestitation of shame, and the exterminator took one look at the walls and called for backup. Roaches, everywhere. Teeming, sweaty masses of roaches, clustered everywhere. Brown stains - roach poo poo - caked the walls. Also boxes and newspapers, boxes and newspapers. What started as a routine spray-and-bomb was now a Biohazard situation, capital B. With roaches crawling over his feet, Phil stood oblivious to it all. This was several years before all those Hoarders shows came about. I can't watch those shows, since I got to see a real-life hoard, up close and personal. The city was called in ("Hope you have somewhere else to stay for a week, buddy."), Phil's son was called in as Phil's intermediary ("I had no idea it had gotten this bad...") and Phil and Ms. Phil were put up in a hotel while the exterminators set off several bug bombs. Not the over-the-counter ones. We're talking hydrant-sized canisters with no labels and grenade-style locking pins. ("It'll be safe for humans in... a week. Pets, maybe a month.") Boom. After the poison smoke was cleared, Phil Jr. emptied all the junk out of the house. A wall of old newspapers littered with dead roaches takes the city about two weeks to haul away, incidentally. Phil and Ms. Phil moved back in about three weeks after that. I suspect the son didn't want them to see all their precious garbage on the curb, awaiting pickup. I guess he wanted this to be their new lease on life. Phil died a week later, on his couch, beer in hand. His son said it was lung complications. I suspect without the life-giving toxic vapors of his roaches, he just shriveled up and died, legs crooked in the air. Ms. Phil moved to Boca. So Phil Jr. says, anyway. I lived at that apartment for another year, completely bug free. It took me about a month to start sleeping calmly through the night again, and I still have the occasional nightmare of Phil's apartment opening its door to let loose a brown, shiny tidal wave of bugs. Gross.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:05
|
|
|
Mine's pretty tame compared to some of the others (that hooker story  ), but it still kind of falls into this category.My grandma lives in a small town in Montana (my grandpa passed away about a decade ago, and she's almost 90, but she's a very resilient woman). It's pretty much like all small towns in rural America - full of older people, not many fun things for a city kid to do, especially when I didn't know anybody my age who lived there. At the very least, though, there's some beautiful scenery around the area, as it's close to a river and a few lakes. Every year when we visit during the summer, we'd end up going to one of these lakes to go swimming. Now, one thing that's obvious to most people is to watch where you're going on country roads, especially ones with wilderness all around. We've all seen some kinds of commercials or had experiences with animals running in front of cars and causing wrecks and whatnot. This is a story of someone who wasn't quite paying enough attention. We drive up to what's actually a clearing in the trees and surrounding area when we pass by a blue car with its hazard lights on, parked on the shoulder. My folks slow down to see if the driver might need some help or anything. As we passed it, though, we caught a whiff of something...funky. As I was seated on the passenger's side, I was the first one to see it: the SUV (I wanna say it was an Expedition or a Tahoe) had plowed into a moose. The car was completely totaled. Moose are thoroughly big animals, so the front of the car was scrunched up to about half of what it should have been, if not worse. But that's not what catches my eye first. Instead, what I see is the front of the car is no longer blue - rather, it's brown. The reason why it smelled so funky was that the front of the entire car was draped in moose poo poo. I cringed in disgust, but then I realize that wasn't the only thing that was jarring about the image. The windshield was completely cracked, and the driver's seat was also covered in moose poo poo. Except for an outline where the driver would have been. I imagined myself in the person's (it turned out later that it was a woman my grandma knew somehow from town) position, and it took me a while to get that image out of my mind and turn off the  so I could get my appetite back.Ugh, it still makes me a little ill thinking of it. Manoueverable has a new favorite as of 23:18 on Apr 11, 2011 |
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:16
|
|
|
50 Foot Ant posted:stuff
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:19
|
|
|
Heh... alright, I can easily surpass the bar the OP set. My best friend has over the past few months turned her lurid childhood into an open secret among our particular group... From the age of 4-12 she was raped repeatedly by her step-father and uncle. At the age of 12 she also fell in love with a boy, had her very first consensual encounter and got pregnant. In a rage, her mother hit her with a door, effectively scrambling her uterus and giving her a dismal future where she was only 2% likely to conceive pretty much ever.. Well... she's been living with me for a while now, and aside from her boyfriend beating her a couple times, things were going hunky-dory until she got a call from her gynecologist....to tell her that they found precancerous cells. She gets an appointment for a few days later that week for a tissue sampling, then finds out....she's pregnant. Sooo.... I got to see her first ultrasound. She's 5 and a half weeks now. Her whole life has been loving What the Christ. Oh yeah, last weekend she tried to break up with her babby daddy, and as a result he took a huge overdose of his antidepressants and proceeded to vomit and pass out in my bathroom. Oh yeah, I also had an ex-sister in law (in her 40s) who was a total methhead, her parents took her in (again) and let her live in a good-sized camper on their property. When they got fed up and shooed her away, she poo poo in a bucket and left it in there for them to find.
|
|
#
?
Apr 11, 2011 23:29
|
|
|
50 Foot Ant posted:Bomber loving a Bigfoot Yes, finally! I've always wanted to hear this ever since you mentioned it in one of the ghost story threads.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 00:14
|
|
|
OP you just broke me.  I rolled out of bed to this. Now it is time for a lovely long walk in the sun avoiding anything that looks like it could be a hotel. That being said, I look forward to your horrors of hotels thread.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 00:53
|
|
|
Nekodoshi posted:From the age of 4-12 she was raped repeatedly by her step-father and uncle. At the age of 12 she also fell in love with a boy, had her very first consensual encounter and got pregnant. In a rage, her mother hit her with a door, effectively scrambling her uterus and giving her a dismal future where she was only 2% likely to conceive pretty much ever.. Well... she's been living with me for a while now, and aside from her boyfriend beating her a couple times, things were going hunky-dory until she got a call from her gynecologist....to tell her that they found precancerous cells. That's more  than it is  . Poor girl...
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:05
|
|
|
Soviet Commubot posted:Tell me this was in the Marble Palace. I have no clue. It was over 20 years ago, I was pretty hammered every time we hit the Red Light District, and that particular time we wandered around showing the 'cruits the sights and hitting bars and looking for a good place. We went into the Lair of Bigfoot because some hot Bavarian Honey gave us some coupons and waved us to the place, and they didn't raise an eyebrow at 7 drunken GI's waving cash and hared dicks coming in. Life with Nagle, Taggart, Bomber, and my wife has provided plenty of WTF moments that I look back and hang my head over now. We were ridiculous in the way that I don't really understand how we got there. Part of me says it's a combination of living in constant fear and dulling the fear with alcohol combined with the nihilism of being told at least twice a week that we were going to die at any time, combined with just stopping giving a poo poo. poo poo that was normal at the time are just "what the gently caress were we thiking?" moments now. For content: I had a friend just rip into a woman I was in the middle of having sex with, mocking her breasts, her waist, her rear end, her ability to gently caress, everything, when the woman I was loving called my friend a "scar faced bitch" after she walked in asking me if I had any beer. In a total WTF moment in the middle of the two women screaming at each other, my friend walked up, yanked the woman off me, and chased the woman out of my room swearing at her, threw the woman's clothing into the hallway and slammed the door (locking the girl in the hallway naked) then came back, cracked open a beer, then drunkenly gave me a lecture that I deserved better than a " flat chested shallow pussied club whore with less brains than tits who was just after my paycheck" (I've never forgotten that part even though it was almost 20 years ago) before throwing up in my trash can and then passing out on my bed. So there I was, stuck with a raging hardon, pinned underneath my friend, who had passed out with her face less than a foot from my cock. What else could I do? I went to sleep. The real part for my friends?I married that friend about two years later. Nostalgia4ColdWar has a new favorite as of 01:35 on Apr 12, 2011 |
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:30
|
|
|
One summer, I scored a pretty loving sweet job, working at a mycology lab. The majority of my duties involved opening little packages of black construction paper that either contained a small amount of skin flakes, or some toenail clippings. I'd mount these on a microscope slide, and put a small drop of sodium hydroxide to dissolve the keratin to let the lab techs see spores or fungal filaments under the microscope. Opening these black packages was always a surprise. Sometimes you'd get a generic white powder, sometimes some nail clippings, and sometimes a whole fungally-infected toenail. One time, a package of skin scrapings started jumping around, because there were some fleas or mites that a person had. However, none of this eclipsed the time I opened up the chunks. I was going on through my usual routine, when I noticed that a package I picked up was unusually thick. I proceed to open it to find several bright orange thick slices of dried skin. It looked exactly like dried mango slices. These were not deliberately sliced. Rather, they looked like they freely came off the body.  I do my best to try to cut up a small slice to fit under the coverslip, but I can't stop wondering where the hell does something like this come from. My supervisor and I look at the lab requisition, which notes the source of collection was the "perineum". My 15-year-old self non-chalantly asks "what's that", never having had my virgin ears exposed to such terminology. My supervisor hesitates, and then says "well, it's the area between your bumhole and your pee hole". My eyes widen, my jaw drops and I do not eat dried mangoes for 3 years.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:39
|
|
|
Crunchy Munster posted:Hahaha, Mr. Blackstock was thinking of the OP when riding that dildo.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:45
|
|
|
AmbassadorTaxicab posted:::innocent leadup:: And I'm done with the 4-Cheese Lays.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:46
|
|
|
I went Riotfest in Chicago, which is a huge four-day thing with a ton of punk and hardcore bands playing different bars. One of my closest friends lives there and his birthday falls on the week of Riotfest so it's kind of like this big super-fun thing. And plus he had a place for me to stay there. Unfortunately, that place was at an apartment that all his crusty friends had just moved into. They're horrible people, and I hate them. I spent as little time as I could at the apartment, basically just there to sleep. People there would literally just start doing heroin as soon as they got up and nothing else all day. There was one girl there who had a slight belly. And it was obviously not that she was fat, it was the kind where you could tell she was pregnant. So at one point when we were aside, I asked my friend about it. "So, she looks like she's...pregnant." "Yeah, she is." "Well, she's still doing a lot of poo poo." "Yeah, she couldn't get an abortion, and she can't keep it, so she's just drinking and doing a bunch of drugs so that it'll die when it's born." She looked maybe 2-3 months pregnant. I asked how far along she was. She was 7 months.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 01:59
|
|
|
Jesus...this kind of stuff is what I read GBS for. Thank you, folks. This story pales in comparison to the OP's story or the gay porn addict or any of the other poo poo but I suppose it may be informative for some people as to why "Being a cheap bastard" should not be on your list of desirable traits. I could probably start a whole thread called "S**t My Dad Does", except replace William Shatner with Gary Busey at his most off-the-wall.Anyway - long story short, my mother died just over a year ago. I hadn't seen my parents for a couple years (my parents make American Beauty look like The Brady Bunch so going up for visits was always a pretty affair, to say nothing of growing up with them). My dad is an incredibly cheap bastard and has a bit of a hoarding problem (though nothing on par with horror stories I've heard about houses you can't even walk through, mind you), which is where this story comes in.My brothers and I get together to visit with our dad after we get the news about our mom and check out the house we all spent a good portion of our growing up in. My dad lives in a two-story house with the kitchen over the garage. We go in through the garage to access the ground floor through the door at the rear of the garage. The loving garage is filled with tons of random tools, trash cans, lumber and other junk. That's not the bad part. The bad part is that about a fourth of the ceiling in the garage has caved in (exposing the support beams and insulation), there's waterlogged drywall laying all over the floor, there are colonies of horrifyingly impressive fungi growing out of the ceiling and the walls around this hole in the ceiling, not to mention tons of mildew and mold all around that general area. There's also at least 3-4 constant drips of water from the ceiling in the garage that you have to dodge. As it turns out, the kitchen sink was non-functional for...I'd guess probably at least a year before we came to the house. My mom was suffering from dementia for at least two years before she died (I didn't know this until my dad broke the news about her dying) otherwise I imagine she would have gotten my dad to fix the loving sink, since it was not only non-functional - but it was leaking this entire loving time (keep reading to see how bad it got). We get into the house and of course the place is about as bad as you might expect from a hoarder - my dad has been using all of the downstairs bedrooms to store even more random junk he has no use for and the downstairs hallway has a bunch of poo poo stacked in it as well. The kitchen of course is a horror show - the counters are covered in food-caked plates, papers, the works. The sink is full of absolutely loving disgusting crap including some horrible-smelling black poo poo that I can only guess was mold or rotten food. That's bad enough, but the tile floor has had most of the tiles removed and the exposed wooden subfloor is more warped than Mike Tyson, plus it's soaked with water from this long-standing leak which has destroyed the floor and seeped through to the garage below and caused the ceiling collapse. To cut this story a bit short - my uncle (dad's younger brother who is an awesome guy and totally unlike my dad) and I have been dealing with my dad and his house situation for the past year after these horrifying discoveries came to light. The sink has been fixed (I can only imagine if the plumber is a goon, he would have been salivating to post his adventure in my dad's house in this thread) and the floor is dried out. My uncle had to pay for the plumber on his own since my dad kept bullshitting about how he was going to call one after being told repeatedly to do it - end cost was about $300 to replace a valve in the sink itself (shutting off the water under the sink didn't stop the leak before anyone asks). Read that again. $300 for a basic plumbing repair. I understand from my uncle that the damage caused by my dad's refusal to call a plumber this whole time would probably amount to at least $50,000 to fix. indeed.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 02:16
|
|
|
JoeyVapes posted:
I was reminded of it as soon as I read the OP, but the book comment especially made me think of Tales of a Street Sweeper. Stuff like this is why I love Something Awful. Never stop having alternately terrible/awesome life experiences guys.  Unfortunately my brain doesn't really work in a way which lets me remember stuff like this all the time. If something jogs my memory I'll be sure to come back and share, though most of the stuff I can vaguely recall right now is just your standard "person you know turns out to casually yet seriously endorse eugenics" type stuff. If anything worse happened to me, it's entirely possible I've blocked it out since I'm not really the storyteller type and that's the only reason I can imagine for keeping these kinds of experiences on hand.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 03:15
|
|
|
ZnCu posted:cockroaches Ahhhh gently caress that. I have drat near a phobia about roaches and your story was horrific to read.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 03:52
|
|
|
My Lovely Horse posted:That's from an episode of Black Books. Guess it's a story that either made its way into the script or originated there. That could easily be where I heard it. I watched Black Books but I don't remember most of it. I thought it was something someone told me back in my uni days, but it really could have been from TV, I guess.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 05:38
|
|
|
I have a few little blurbs that left me just awe-strikingly . Nothing compared to OP obviously, I won't be sleeping for days after reading that. I used to work at a pharmacy, a relatively busy one for the area filled nearly 400 prescriptions a day with 3 - 4 people actively working . On Fridays though the store dies, and you'd be lucky to see 100 prescriptions the whole day. The difference was though on Friday almost the ENTIRE batch of customers, nearly every single living person coming up had some kind of dementia. From the lady who was 50 years old, looked like ninety, and smelled like she took baths in dissolved cats to the one that insisted that we were conspiring against her... One evening there was a particularly interesting man walking up to the register. He sniffing and wiping his nose, pants jacked up above his belly-button, and bulbous eyes nearly poking through his half-centimeter thick glasses. They were the kind of glasses that were so thick that you swear at the right angle you could probably get them to make a rainbow. He put his hands down on the register desk (after extensive nose wiping) and gave his name, making sure it was his Doxycycline hyclate he was supposed to pick up. Somewhere along the line he manages to untuck his shirt. He's constantly playing with his waistline and wiping his nose with his other hand. So I find his prescription hand it to him, he begins dialog with the pharmacist, Man: "Will this help with my peter?" Pharmacist: "Excuse me?" Man: "This medication, will it help my peter? It's been uncomfortable and I just really hope it helps. " Pharmacist: "Well if it's a fungal infection, then yeah it should help yes." This whole time he's running his hands around his waistline, while simultaneously breaking comfort zones such as putting his hand on the top of my screen wrapping his fingers around it. It's around then, right then that I noticed his zipper is down and more than down, his fly is open. Like an eye of madness staring back at me his fly is open with his infected junk nearly rubbing against the register table. He gets on an extensive rant about how I should stay in school, how I should not get into drugs like he did at one point. The whole time that eye just stared me down. As he left I could see visible snot patterns on the table. I disinfected everything. 
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 06:18
|
|
|
Hydrogen_Otter posted:The surprise package  This was nice to see in a thread full of appalling faeces stories 
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 06:26
|
|
|
Renaissance Robot posted:I was reminded of it as soon as I read the OP, but the book comment especially made me think of Tales of a Street Sweeper. Stuff like this is why I love Something Awful. Never stop having alternately terrible/awesome life experiences guys. These are all amazing, and on the "seriously endorsing eugenics" note, probably my most what-the-Christ moment in the last couple of years was when someone in a RPG group I was in at the time got into a heated argument with another member about whether or not people on the autism spectrum should be killed when they're diagnosed. Not "maybe don't have kids if you have serious mental disabilities", not genetic screening, but - completely seriously - "Wait until they're midway through grade school, then execute them if they show up on the autism spectrum". This was while a third member of the group, a high-functioning autistic (whose disability is both fairly obvious and not a closely kept secret), was standing nearby. Nowhere neat the poo poo-lasagna stories, I know, but still pretty mind-boggling. Edit: I should clarify that this ended pretty much as you'd expect; we had to pick only one of autistic guy and child-murder-advocacy guy to remain in the group. Autistic guy won. Theseus has a new favorite as of 06:31 on Apr 12, 2011 |
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 06:28
|
|
|
Crazy685 posted:Im confused. How did she do all this with your roommate in the room? Should've clarified. He stepped out for 5 minutes to call someone.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 06:32
|
|
|
JoeyVapes posted:Nothing could have prepared me for the sight of a nude, obese, legless woman in her mid to late 70's writhing on her back on the floor next to a poo poo-stained bed, caked in fecal matter, tracking a snail-trail of poo poo on the carpet, scabbed leg-stumps flailing pitifully, franticly trying to scour poop out of her enormous rear end-crevice with a once-white pillowcase, softly chanting "Lawd, done messed. . .done fell and messed it good. . .Lawd Jesus, what a shameful mess I done made, yes lawd. . .done messed. . ." That's remarkable self-restraint you showed there. Somebody else would have taken advantage of the helpless woman.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 06:52
|
|
|
JibbaJabberwocky posted:
That is so heart wrenchingly depressing 
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 07:13
|
|
|
When I was young, I used to bike down to the gas station in the summer to buy candy and stuff. By young, I mean like it was 2003 and I was 13. The gas station wasn't a very long bike ride, roughly 5 blocks away from my house. At the time, nearby the gas station there was one of those seedy motels that small towns tend to end up using as a 12-room, white trash apartment complex. Pretty much every room there was somebody's permanent home. One day I was passing along the side of the motel, when I happened to notice that standing in the back doorway of the motel was a fat, stark-naked girl, who couldn't have been older than 10. She was just standing there, leaning on the doorframe, like she does this every day. I really didn't know what to make of it at the time, so I just kept going. I never saw her again, though, and the motel was demolished to make room for a used car lot a few years later. Hello Meow has a new favorite as of 08:16 on Apr 12, 2011 |
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 07:53
|
|
|
Flavor Bear posted:I was walking down the street in Erie, Pennsylvania and a young boy, about 11 or 12, sitting on the sidewalk said to me, "Papa made a mess, give him a dollar." In a similar vein, I've seen billboards innnn....Arkansas, I seem to recall, or thereabouts, featuring a sad or scared-looking little girl imploring drivers to detour and visit her daddy's liquor store. The implication seemed to be that if they didn't, she got the belt again. A lot....
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 07:54
|
|
|
Walking/staggering home from the bar with friends, one of us (alright, me) needed to sit down and stop the Global Rotation for a few moments. Behind the bench there was a backpack that was claimed as a trophy. Once we got back to my friends place and got it open it was *full* of needles. Used, unused(probably) and many still sealed in sterile packaging. Empty coke bottles of full of them, plastic bags, everything. It was definitely a sobering moment, and we took it down to the metro claim station asap.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 09:10
|
|
|
I used to volunteer at a local hospital, running the 8 to midnight shift in the emergency room. While my stories have nothing on some of the...nastier ones posted here, I figure there's no harm in sharing. First thing that comes to my mind is my first day on the shift. I had just arrived, and went to the back to ask the shift supervisor about orientation. About halfway through the tour, she plops me down next to this guy in a bed who looks about 60, with a few cuts and bruises on his arms and face and reeking of vodka, and tells me to "keep him talking". I learned the man's name was John, and that he had fallen down the stairs while drunk off his rear end in the house of the person he's supposed to be a caretaker for. Eventually he passed out, leaving me to twiddle my thumbs in a chair outside for the next two hours, but I swear in that four hours he didn't sober up even a little. Still reeked of booze when I left. Next up was the suicidal 16 year old. The folks at the front told me nothing beyond "They want you in back at Room #XXXX". I walked back, peered into the room, and saw a young girl who looked like she'd been crying. I awkwardly asked if she needed anything, and when she didn't respond I shrugged and pulled up a chair outside until a doctor that was passing by asked if I was the volunteer she sent for. I said yes and she told me my only job was to sit right there and keep and eye on her, and the minute she made any sort of move to her wrists or to pull out her tubes I was to jump on her and restrain her and yell for a nurse. Thankfully it didn't come to that, but I was still put off by the whole thing. Other stories include stuff like the 90 year old who shat himself and stank up the whole waiting room, and the fat kid that walked right up to me while I was working the front and told me with wild eyes that he "just took a lot of pills". I hurried the kid to the front of the line, but the receptionist couldn't get him checked in until she finished with the couple in front of him in line, and while he was waiting his mother tore into the room yelling at the receptionist to get her son checked in. I shared the mother's concern to a point, but honestly if the kid was as close to death as she thought then he'd probably look different (he looked perfectly normal). Turned out it was nothing serious, he just had to get his stomach pumped and when they left the mother uttered a hurried apology to us for yelling.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 09:58
|
|
|
Renaissance Robot posted:I was reminded of it as soon as I read the OP, but the book comment especially made me think of Tales of a Street Sweeper. Stuff like this is why I love Something Awful. Never stop having alternately terrible/awesome life experiences guys. I just read this entire thing, and god drat am I impressed.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 10:47
|
|
|
A relatively minor one compared to the rest of the thread: My family visited some friends in New York State in late 2000. As the place we would be staying was closer to Toronto than New York, the person we would be staying with drove over to collect us at the airport. We got through the Canadian Customs without a hitch, but got pulled over on the US border. There were no problems, just routine paperwork to fill out. As we were leaving, two customs officials/police led a rather agitated man past. They seemed to be rather interested in why the trunk of his car was full of women's underwear. He got marched into an examination room. The last I saw of this was the second customs officer (a very burly woman) pulling on an elbow-length plastic glove with a loud "snap"
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:01
|
|
|
StealthStealth posted:I cannot stop laughing at this. It's the "Oh no!" that makes it. "Oh no!" and suddenly poo poo everywhere. I just had to read this to my boss since he was asking what the hell I was laughing at, and he's losing it too. I used to work at Michael's when I was a teenager. I once was restocking a section while a normal-looking middle-aged lady browsed quietly a few feet away from me. Suddenly, she shouted, "Oh! Oh! Oh!" and quickly shuffled away. I stood there staring after her for a moment, thinking :whatthechrist: , and then the smell hit me in the face like a big stinky fist. You could practically see it in the air. An odor of rotten eggs and moldy soil. She had dealt either the stinkiest poo poo or the stinkiest fart I had ever smelled.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:10
|
|
|
Alright, I know I can't top some of these, but this is the best story I have, and unfortunately (fortunately?) its second hand. A friend of mine used to work at Little Caesar's, probably 4-5 years ago, and told me this story about one of her coworkers. They called him Luigi, he was super tall and thin, and a chain smoker. Constant smoke breaks, and here's where it starts. Every time he went out to take a smoke break, he'd take the dough for the breadsticks, and roll it into little balls. Then he'd take those little balls of dough, and line them up in his asscrack, then go out to take his smoke. 15-30 minutes later, he'll come back in, roll the breadsticks, and bake them. He got fired as soon as they found out, but what the gently caress who knows how long it had been going on. I haven't eaten Little Caesar's since.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:22
|
|
|
PandaPropaganda posted:Alright, I know I can't top some of these, but this is the best story I have, and unfortunately (fortunately?) its second hand. There isn't a in the world big enough.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:31
|
|
|
Alright, this is my mom's story. In the 80's she had a spinal fusion done. After you wake up from this surgery you are basically immobilized in your bed for some time before you are allowed to move (not that you can voluntarily move anyway at first due to the pain). The woman in the bed next to her had had a stroke, and the only word she could say was the name of the town she was from: Waterloo. My mom said this lady was driving her bonkers, asking to everyone and no one, "Waterloo? Waterloo?....Waterloo? Waterloo." Over and over and over again. She had no idea how bad it was going to get. Over a few days, the lady became constipated. Laxatives hadn't worked, and apparently she had a stool just brimming on her rear end in a top hat, but it was still too hard and big to be pushed through. So one night a bunch of nurses came into the room to do a grim job: Glove up and pick the poo poo bit by bit out of her. They tromped in and drew the curtain around the bed. My mom said what she heard went like this: "Waterloo? Waterloo?" "Sorry ma'am, we have to help you out a bit here for a minute." "Waterloo? Waterloo?" "Just put your legs up like that...there we go. This won't take long, don't worry." "Waterloo?...Waterloo? Water- WATERLOO! WATERLOOO!! WATERLOOOOOOOOOO! "And the stench that followed. The stench, she said, set the nurses coughing. My mom had no choice but to lie there, immobile, in terrible pain, wanting to puke, surrounded by a horrible poo poo smell and screams of Waterloo.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:35
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 25, 2024 12:34 |
|
|
I have posted this story before in my ask tell thread: (For reference, I am a strip club DJ by trade.) Craziest story I think I have is this, middle of the day, just playing tunes look up and see a couple sitting at stage closest to me, guy seems to be enjoying himself, is talking to the girls, tipping, ordering drinks for him and his girl, putting money in front of her to get the girls to dance for her, but something seems off, I mean she is just sitting there, so I walk out of the booth to have a look at whats going on and to my surprise this isnt a girl at all. Its a loving mannequin. A mannequin with its makeup done, wearing a very nice necklace, heels and a cocktail dress. That is still the weirdest thing I think I have ever seen.
|
|
#
?
Apr 12, 2011 14:39
|
|
