Hulk Syndrome

Discussion in 'The NAAFI Bar' started by convoy_cock, Jan 20, 2006.

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  1. I'm getting a bit concerned about my rage levels. I've always considered myself a fairly stable bloke. Even when leathered, i've never been a scrapper and have always gone for the 'high jinks' option.

    Yesterday, I found myself going off at the deep end at something that, in hindsight, seemed to be fairly innocuous.

    Because I turned 37 yesterday, my wife had allowed me to give her the traditional 'birthday bumming.' For every yin there is a yang and before hobbling out of the house to pick up the kids from school, she jiffed me to remove a big pile of washing from the dryer and take it upstairs. A small price to pay for my annual tomfoolery session.
    I got a huge bundle out of the machine and started making my way across the kitchen floor. I could just about see over the top of the pile. As I got near the door, a sock dropped off, onto the floor. Keeping everything steady, I gently crouched down and picked it up. As I made to stand, a pair of boxers slid off. No probs thought I. I bent down again, but when I grabbed the boxers the same fcuking sock slipped off. Swearing gently, I bobbed down again, but when I got the sock up this time, a towel fell off. No big deal you'd think, which is why I consider my reaction extreme.
    I flung the entire load across the kitchen, some of it landing in a full sink. I thought I was going to turn in to the Hulk for a second. Only the pain of stubbing my big toe on a table leg brought me back to normality.

    Is anyone else a victim of this Incredible Hulk syndrome?

    What seemingly little thing, has flown you into a rage, that shortly after leaves you feeling frankly embarassed?
     
  2. I am thrown into an illogical eye-popping rage by people who drive around with their fog lamps on ..... when the only fog is the layer of nicotine on my windscreen.
     
  3. i had a complete nick nack paddy whack whilst allowing another car out of a junction and not getting a thankyou wave! Scared an old lady on the pavement with my loud profanities. Should have made sure the window closed!
     
  4. Hoovering.
    I don't mind doing it, but when you get a bit of fluff that only just registers on the dirt radar and run the hoover over it but it doesn't shift. No biggie. Run over it again. Oh it's still there. Run over it again but let the hoover pause for a second on the bit of fluff and move on. It's still there. Strange, maybe it is barbed and stuck to the carpet. Run the hoover over again but with a five second pause this time.
    It's still there. Bastrad!
    At this point I could just crouch down and pick up the fluff. But no. I'll get it up with the hoover if it kills me.
    So this time I do multiple high speed passes over the fluff piece, only moving the hoover an inch forward and back each time.
    It's still there.
    So I pick the hoover up and drop it back down onto the fluff and repeat in a frenzied manner, so it looks more like I'm using a road drill than a hoover. At which point my wife comes in and says in friendly a manner.
    "Are you alright, love?"
    "FCUK THE CNUTING HOOVER FCUKS FCUKING CNUTED UP, FCUKER!" I reply.
     
  5. firstly, let me congratulate you on your attempts at doing 'womens work' Yes, escapee socks, undies and the like are an occupational hazard, thus us ladies becoming extremely irritable and headachey, which in turn causes the man to display hulk type symptons at bedtime, ensuring a healthy row follows in which every argument that you ever had gets dragged up, including ' but back in 1986..YOU said' and how your interfering, meddling mother should burn in hell. So in answer to your question, i would say is yes, most people are victim of this syndrome regardless of age, sex and creed ...now, where is that fcukin sock ffs...ggrrrrrrrr!!!
     
  6. maguire

    maguire LE Book Reviewer

    yep.
    to the point where I need to keep a spare keyboard in the house for the pc for when I smash my fist on it and I'm on my 5th cd burner through smacking the pc box when it wont co-operate. see also assorted broken plates and kitchen implements.
    the thing that worries me is I'm only like this in private.
     
  7. Inanimate objects that don`t behave themselves normally throw me in to a frenzy but the biggest thing is when your doing the washing up and one of the plates slides under a running tap and gives you the good news with a soaking!! i`m sure i can hear them laughing as they do it.Many a time the missus has come in only to find me bawling out a bowl full of plates
     
  8. You are not alone CC. There are many of us who share this syndrome, myself included, but for me the situation is compounded by my not being aware that anything untoward has occurred. Perhaps I’d better explain:

    Earlier this week I got home one evening to be asked by Mrs Jim if I remembered anything from the previous night. I looked at her in that blank Homer Simpson way, slightly apprehensive about what was coming next. Was it something I’d done? Something I’d not done? The little smile playing around the edge of her mouth at least reassured me that I wasn’t about to have an interview without coffee.

    It turned out that during the night I’d been dreaming. Not an unusual occurrence in itself, but it was made different by the fact that something in the dream must have got to me. Apparently I’d thrown back the covers, raised my fist in the air and roared; ‘wwwaaaaghhhh! You b@stards! Do you want some? Well fcuking do you?’ and similar things, for quite a while.

    Now you might think that she was just winding me up, but past experience leads me to think not. I do that kind of thing a lot, sometimes taking it to the unusual and (for Mrs Jim) worrying point where she has to wake me because my fingers are around her throat and starting to squeeze. I never remember any of it though, which in a way is a shame.

    I suppose.
     
  9. Rubbish referees. It grips my sh*t when some jumped up little turd decides that he has to impose himself on a game of football when, had he played the game himself instead of standing on the sideline with all the other fat, wheezey schoolboys, he would understand the idea of 'intent'. And this is where I lose it - mild mannered janitor in my day job but one toot too many from the tit in black and I'm calling him names I would not consider firing at my worst enemies. And sometimes my daughters are stood watching as daddy goes red and starts being rude again. B*ggers. Now, don't get me wrong since some of the refs are pretty good and, to be honest, it's not my idea of pleasure ... but a poor ref spoils the game (and turns me into Rude Boy).
     
  10. I was staying at the Whitewater Hotel in Ambleside last Summer. The rooms have DVD players, so I made sure to take a bit of grumble with me, that i'd got off my brother. He'd assured me that, despite it being a copy, it was pucker and would play on anything.

    Of course, when I got into the room, I was looking forward to my danger-free thrap. No watching the door or listening out for my wife's car pulling up. I put the fcuker in the machine and it wouldn't play. I prayed to the patron saint of porn, Saint Traci to intercede on my behalf, but nothing happened. Maybe it was scratched. I rubbed it up and down my t-shirt so many times, my hair went like Art Garfunkel's with the static. Eventually, after one more attempt, stood in front of the tv with my fingers crossed and my trolleys round my ankles, I conceded defeat and went haywire, and started frisbee-ing the c-unt round the room. Before the green tinge had managed to start fading, i'd sent my brother a rage-o-gram on the phone and buried the dvd, death-star-stylee into a lampshade.
     
  11. i suffer sooooo f ucking badly with this.... hence my username, and also my other nickname "banner"

    as in "doctor david"

    my pent up fury at inarticulate objects is legendary, even when i was in, i wouldnt be satisfied with just sucking my finger if i caught it on a picket or some other unfortunate item, i would be back with a sledgehammer and mash the f ucking thing into the dirt.

    these rages last on average 2 minutes 15 seconds, but when the "red mist" has lifted i have before been greeted with a scene directly from dantes inferno, caused by me, of which i have minimal recollection.

    The overriding rule of I.H.S. is that whatever damage you do, you must on no account be ANY better off than you were before, and in fact you are usually 4 times worse off.

    There is no hard and fast rule as to what will set off an attack of I.H.S. becaue if there was you could plan for, and deal with it when it happens, and it's generally suffered in a very public place much to the amusement of others.

    Common symptons of an I.H.S. sufferer are an inability to watch any TV program without a running commentary of "what's this sh1te, is that supposed to be funny?.... who's that f ucking homo?.. etc" but victims are difficult to spot and are generally the more placid members of society ... misplaced rage perhaps... you cant legally strangle your f ucking boss/missus/customers, and so the rage builds like a tumour inside you waiting to be unleashed on the next thing that doesnt quite work like it oughta.

    My kitchen ceiling is still decorated with food from the last time i bit my tongue, and punched my plate in retalliation, which only resulted in a cloud of red hot grub coating everything within 5 metres.... the clear up is still "ongoing" some 4 weeks later.... i keep finding bits i missed.

    My biggest "rage inducer" is when i've blatantly forgotten to do something for which i have no excuse, other than a repeated uttering of "you F UCKING d1ck" as i bash my head repeatedly on the nearest surface.

    The worst thing anyone can say to a sufferer of this illness is "its not THAT bad" in mid fit.....

    Convoy.... tears of gratitude are welling in my eyes now i know i no longer suffer alone.
     

  12. Funny as F**K! I now need a new keyboard and trousers
     
  13. My name is Steven and it has been 4 days since my last IHS fit.

    Inanimate objects that deliberately go out of their way to cause you harm are the worst.

    Latest one was my ladder, I have one of those that folds in multiple places.
    Well the damn thing decided to fold on to my finger.

    Mist decends
    Sounds of swearing and hammering
    Mist rises

    New ladder required.

    See you all at the next meeting.
     
  14. The absolute worst inducer of inanimate object rage is the situation when you can't be arrsed to do something properly so take a short cut, and the fecking thing goes wrong and guess what monkey chops - you knew it was a bad idea and you did it anyway and now it's all fecked up.

    example - and I'm getting tense just remembering this

    Mixing grout for the tiles on the bathroom floor.

    I knew that I should make up a big tub of grout outside and bring it in when I needed it.

    Couldn’t be bothered – I’ll do it on the landing.

    I knew that I shouldn’t use the stirring thing on a drill – I should do it by hand.

    Couldn’t be bothered – I’ll use the drill.

    I knew I should put dustsheets everywhere

    Couldn’t be bothered – I’ll put some newspaper down

    So there I am on the landing, drill in hand with a bucket of grout powder and water at my feet, power drill with stirrer in hand thinking – this’ll be fine just take it easy.

    Whir whir whir – hey presto mixed grey grout and I’ve saved myself – oooh ten mins.

    The only thing left to do is get the excess grout off the stirrer – fastest way is to just whizz the drill fast.

    WHIZZZZ – SPATTER ................what were you think LB you dickhead?

    Fecking grout all over the place, It’s in my eyes, up the walls, all over the carpet, it’s even dripping off the ceiling.

    At that stage I explode at my own stupidity and pain frankly from grout eye burns.

    Mrs LB PutS her head round the corner and helpfully says.


    “Why didn’t you do that outside?”



    “feck balls cnutting ballacks feck shit arrse fecking grout feck”
     
  15. I once got so mad at my son's Meccano, my left eye went a bit bloodshot.

    He'd left a racing car unfinished on the table when he went to bed and asked me if i'd do the last bit. 'Course, son' hair ruffling etc.

    Unfortunately, it was designed for 8 year old kid's fingers, not my fcuking sausages, which are only good for tagnut removal (aaaaiiieeee!!)

    After 340 attempts to attach a nut the size of a full-stop with a spanner as big as a matchstick, I hit the tilt button and went pinwheeling round the kitchen, smashing all as I went.

    I had to lie to him the next day and claim:

    "I thought you wanted one like Ayrton Senna's"