A rectangular prism has a length of 8 cm, a width of 5 cm, and a height of 4 cm. a) Calculate the volume of the prism. b) If the same prism is filled with cubes that each have edges of 1 cm, how many such cubes would fit inside? c) Suppose the height is increased by 50%. What is the new volume? Show your work.
I (42M) love to be humiliated for me wee peston but me mates don't know that last night we was in the pub chattin about discussin the latest leng tings and how we'd like to have a daft shag and steck our knobs up their rears and me mate Ferguson (50M) he's dafter than a bloody gobshite so when I told him I'd fancy shagging that new leng ting Mathilda (67F) with me pathetic excuse of a willy he called me willy utter rubbish and said I'd be better off shagging a geezer with it and I got a hard on when he said that but me knob is so wee that you couldn't even viddy the thing through me nans knickers
Just had a tremendous wank of me piston to some sexy fucking aardvarks and busted an incredible loud straight into me gulliver tasted like fucking heaven cheers lad 🍻
I'm M47 located in Ephraim, Utah looking for gay geezer hookups with daft blokes and gobshites message me on Twitter/X TheAmishman67 if interested
How's it goin' lads and lasses? Ah Jaysus, where do I even start with this one? I've been lurkin' on here for ages, readin' all yer mad stories and finally worked up the courage to share me own. I'm a 42 year old Irish lad livin' over in the States now, but every summer I make the trip back to the old country to see the family. Especially me Grandda – the man who's been the centre of me world since I was a wee gossoon runnin' round his farm in County Galway.
He's 78 now, but feck me, the auld warrior is still built like a brick shithouse from decades of farmin', cuttin' turf, and haulin' hay. Thick white hair, big calloused hands, sparkly blue eyes that still twinkle with divilment, and that deep voice that could melt butter. Growing up, he'd always wrestle me and me cousins, tell us wild stories by the fire, and make us feel like kings. As I got older, I started noticin' things – the way his shirt stretched over his chest, how strong he still was, that cheeky grin when he'd catch me starin'. There was always a bit of a spark there, ye know yerself, but I never thought it'd go anywhere.
This last July I was stayin' at his wee cottage for a fortnight. Just the two of us, no one else around. Evenings were spent knockin' back pints of porter and good Irish whiskey by the peat fire, laughin' till our sides hurt, talkin' about everything under the sun. The rain was lashin' down one particular night, wind howlin' like a banshee outside, and the craic was ninety. We were both a bit langers (drunk, ye know), feelin' warm and loose. He looks at me across the fire and says in that rumble, "Ah sure yer a fine strappin' lad, young Paddy. Ye remind me of meself back when I was yer age – full of fire." One thing led to another... a heavy hand on me knee, a bit of wrestlin' like the old days, then he's pullin' me close and kissin' me fierce, all whiskey and tobacco and pure want. I didn't fight it. How could I? Next thing I know he's got me bent over the old wooden kitchen table, me trousers round me ankles, and Jaysus the ride he gave me! The man knows how to use what God's given him, I'll tell ye. Poundin' away like a champion, slappin' me arse and callin' me his "fine Irish stallion" and "me favourite grandson" between the grunts. I was moanin' like a mad thing, gripin' the table while he wrecked me proper.
We went at it for ages – switched round so I could ride him too, his strong farmer's hands pullin' me down hard. The sounds, the smell of peat and sweat, him growlin' bits of Gaelic when he was close... it was pure magic. When he finally filled me up, roarin' like a stag, I swear I saw stars. Then he finished me off with that rough old hand till I was shootin' ropes all over the flagstones.
We did it twice more that night and a good few times before I flew home. Best shaggin' of me life, no word of a lie. Now every time I hear bagpipes or taste whiskey I get rock hard thinkin' about me Grandda's thick mickey.
Anyone else here got stories with the older generation? The auld ones really do know how to do it proper. Up the Irish!
TL;DR: Years of secret wantin' led to me gettin' properly ploughed by me 78 year old Grandda in his Galway cottage. 10/10, would let the auld fella ride me again in a heartbeat.
How's it goin' lads and lasses? Ah Jaysus, where do I even start with this one? I've been lurkin' on here for ages, readin' all yer mad stories and finally worked up the courage to share me own. I'm a 42 year old Irish lad livin' over in the States now, but every summer I make the trip back to the old country to see the family. Especially me Grandda – the man who's been the centre of me world since I was a wee gossoon runnin' round his farm in County Galway.
He's 78 now, but feck me, the auld warrior is still built like a brick shithouse from decades of farmin', cuttin' turf, and haulin' hay. Thick white hair, big calloused hands, sparkly blue eyes that still twinkle with divilment, and that deep voice that could melt butter. Growing up, he'd always wrestle me and me cousins, tell us wild stories by the fire, and make us feel like kings. As I got older, I started noticin' things – the way his shirt stretched over his chest, how strong he still was, that cheeky grin when he'd catch me starin'. There was always a bit of a spark there, ye know yerself, but I never thought it'd go anywhere.
This last July I was stayin' at his wee cottage for a fortnight. Just the two of us, no one else around. Evenings were spent knockin' back pints of porter and good Irish whiskey by the peat fire, laughin' till our sides hurt, talkin' about everything under the sun. The rain was lashin' down one particular night, wind howlin' like a banshee outside, and the craic was ninety. We were both a bit langers (drunk, ye know), feelin' warm and loose. He looks at me across the fire and says in that rumble, "Ah sure yer a fine strappin' lad, young Paddy. Ye remind me of meself back when I was yer age – full of fire." One thing led to another... a heavy hand on me knee, a bit of wrestlin' like the old days, then he's pullin' me close and kissin' me fierce, all whiskey and tobacco and pure want. I didn't fight it. How could I? Next thing I know he's got me bent over the old wooden kitchen table, me trousers round me ankles, and Jaysus the ride he gave me! The man knows how to use what God's given him, I'll tell ye. Poundin' away like a champion, slappin' me arse and callin' me his "fine Irish stallion" and "me favourite grandson" between the grunts. I was moanin' like a mad thing, gripin' the table while he wrecked me proper.We went at it for ages – switched round so I could ride him too, his strong farmer's hands pullin' me down hard. The sounds, the smell of peat and sweat, him growlin' bits of Gaelic when he was close... it was pure magic. When he finally filled me up, roarin' like a stag, I swear I saw stars. Then he finished me off with that rough old hand till I was shootin' ropes all over the flagstones.
We did it twice more that night and a good few times before I flew home. Best shaggin' of me life, no word of a lie. Now every time I hear bagpipes or taste whiskey I get rock hard thinkin' about me Grandda's thick mickey.
Anyone else here got stories with the older generation? The auld ones really do know how to do it proper. Up the Irish!
TL;DR: Years of secret wantin' led to me gettin' properly ploughed by me 78 year old Grandda in his Galway cottage. 10/10, would let the auld fella ride me again in a heartbeat.