» The B3TA Detective Agency

Many many years ago in my youth in my local boozer.
There was a stuffed duckling that Sammy, one of the regulars, had bought for Reg, the landlord. Frogmorton, it was called. Anyway, some rotter nicked it one summer. Everyone was very upset, but totally perplexed as well as it was in plain sight when the pub was open and Reg kept the place locked up tight at night. The Fuzz were of no use, and the locals were nice people, but essentially dribbling, saddle-sniffing fools, so as the only remotely intelligent person in town I took it upon myself to solve the crime and recover Frogmorton.

I installed myself in the corner with my pint of Tribute and did my best to be inconspicuous as I listened to everyone around me. I pride myself on being observant and I learned a great deal that day. None of it, however, was pursuant to Frogmorton's disappearance, so I soon became bored and returned to my current project of the day, which was jacking up the vibration of my phone to tectonic levels for use as a sex aid in one of my many trysts.

An hour before closing, I spotted Horace, a drooling straggly fellow. He was as shifty-looking fellow, and would cringe visibly whenever the topic of Frogmorton was brought back to the fore.

"There's your man," thought I, and resolved to follow him.

Two hours later, after closing time and after tailing him on a frankly unpleasant and unnecessary course through the surrounding fields and villages, I found myself back where we started, peering over a post at Horace as he deftly broke into my local boozer. I followed him in. I realised at that moment that whatever happened now, if I was discovered here I'd be tarred with the same brush as Horace. I would have to be at my most crafty. For some reason I found the sense of danger arousing and, completely unbidden, I found myself cultivating a massive lob-on in my shorts. I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on the mission.

I turned the corner into the saloon bar and there was Horace, resplendent on the bar, fucking the hell out of the stuffed duckling that he'd been hiding behind the freezer.

"GOT YOU!" bellowed eight regulars plus Reg as they burst through the kitchen door.

"AHA!" I joined in, "the game's up you rotter! Put down the OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!" I squealed, spurting out rope after rope of gentleman's relish as I orgasmed violently.

As it happened, my tricked-out phone had been pressed snugly against my now-engorged bellend, and my mate Flobbo had chosen that precise moment to call me up with the go-karting scores.

Semen EVERYWHERE.

So I solved the crime, but was mercilessly ribbed for ages as the guy who spunks when men fuck stuffed ducks.

But it didn't matter so much as I was fired soon after for breaking the nose of some poor chap who was bad at maths and couldn't work out the right money to give me for his pint.
(Thu 13th Oct 2011, 20:12, More)

» No Self-Awareness

This is well timed
As my story only happened two months ago.

My cash had completely dried up, so six months prior I was forced to take a menial data entry job to make ends meet. It was monstrously simple work, which I did my best to liven up by writing a series of dirty limericks in the "other" field of each entry. I was doing okay, except the only thing that was spoiling my calm was Brad, the occupant of the next cubicle over.

The one thing that really sets me off is people with no self-awareness. I truly cannot understand how you can move through the world with no conception of your impact upon it, especially when so much of that world is asking you to please, please, keep your voice down. Brad was one of these people. No really, he was the full list: he showered once a month tops, talked at the top of his voice, and ate like a particularly dim-witted pig. He would often fart loudly and then giggle, or loudly congratulate himself.

To make matters worse, the people that ran the place had, in a misplaced attempt to boost morale, permitted music to be played, but had failed to require the use of headphones. Brad liked Capital FM, and played it all day, frequently turning it up and declaring, "Awww, TUNE!!!!!!" and often singing along. Adding insult to injury, Brad was one of those witless, unbearable fucks who had no desire to learn the proper lyrics and would just belt out whatever sounded about right and ignore all attempts to at least put him straight.

All this was seriously damaging my calm, but having been written up in the past for yelling at colleagues, I did my best to keep my dealings with Brad measured, and my complaints civil. But when challenged, all he would do is give this excrutiating, bovine look of contrition and then go right back to doing whatever it was that was disturbing the peace. The supervisors didn't care. They were clean on the other side of the office. Why should they lift a finger?

One day it all got too much. His radio was way too loud, he had mooed out "Hopping Gangrene Style!!!" once too often, he was farting like a dying steam engine, and I had a truly rotten hangover. But I kept my cool, leant over and said "Brad, could you keep it down please? And maybe use the toilet? That doesn't sound healthy." He made the fucking face, that appalling fucking "sorry" face, and my innards tightened in frustration. It was getting too much. But I was going to stay in control. I leaned over the partition and reached for his radio.

"Come on mate, let's just turn this down, eh? Some people are trying to woOOOORHHHHHUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I wailed as I inhaled the full force of his latest backside benefaction, causing my full English breakfast to come back for an encore and me to chunder copiously all over Brad and his work area.

"YOU RANCID BASTARD! YOU APPALLING, STINK SOAKED FUOARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH!" I continued, emptying myself further over the poor young lady in the corner cubicle.

And that's how I ended up being summarily dismissed for screaming at a vomit drenched moron.

On the way home a man punched me in a ball for making a pun about a shelf.
(Mon 3rd Dec 2012, 22:15, More)

» Crap Gadgets

In retrospect the Windows 7 Party was a bad idea.
Do you remember those daft adverts? Trying to sell the idea that ordinary people would actually get together to celebrate the release of Windows 7, and party hard by showing each other how to share pictures over WiFi, or something of that nature. For some reason I decided it would be "hilarious" to actually hold one. Proper satirical, dude. Not only that, but make it a really sophisticated Windows 7 party. I laid on a ton of posh booze, and used my not inconsiderable cheffing skills to make a range of delicous vol-au-vents. I was particularly proud of the crab puffs.

I invited a whole host of people, techie and non-techie; I even invited a bunch of Apple fans, figuring it would be churlish and unfair to exclude them from what was essentially an opportunity to make fun of Microsoft. And a surprisingly large number of people actually came. Even Elaine was there; sweet, sparkling-eyed Elaine. She couldn't have cared less about this sort of thing but there she was, which left me with a pleasant ache of hope that she'd actually come because she wanted to spend time with me. I was delighted.

The party got off to a successful start, as we made our way through the instructions in those ridiculous videos. The booze and food were a hit, and Elaine, having no particular interest in the computer stuff, kept herself busy by picking at the spread I'd laid on. She was particularly taken with the crab puffs; in fact, I think she ate the whole lot. Things were going well. Very well. Suprisingly well for a party predicated on a self-indulgent nerd-joke. But I guess people were there to have a good time, so that's what they had.

Fast forward a few hours and things were really swinging. Everyone was drunk, particularly Elaine. Alan, one of the Apple fans, was busy trying to download horse porn onto my laptop. I have no idea what he did to it, but it suddenly blue-screened.

"Hah!" said he. "What a shitty piece of Windows shit!" he gloated.

"Fuck off back to your Baby's First Laptop, you fat Mac twat!" slurred a voice. A beautiful, angelic, drunken voice.

I turned, and there she was. Sweet, wonderful Elaine, pointing and laughing at Alan. And then she looked at me. The smile, that sparkling, knowing smile in her eyes said it all. "I know you," it said. "I understand you. I love you." It was a perfect moment. Utterly, utterly perfect.

A moment which was thoroughly ruined when she shat herself thirty seconds later.

It turned out that in my technophiliac haste to get the party up and running, I had neglected to actually cook the crab puffs. And she'd eaten all of them.

I could only look on in horror as the love of my life was carried out of the party, hooting and shitting, whilst Alan noisily vomited on my brand new Alienware desktop. We didn't see much of each other after that.

And later on my fucking Dyson vacuuum cleaner died. This the third one in a year I mean for fuck's sake they don't make them like they used to you know that man makes it all up as he goes along you know it's a triumph of form over function I bet his next invention will be some kind of plastic anus by god.
(Fri 30th Sep 2011, 23:17, More)

» Overcoming adversity

How I Learned to Walk Again
New Years 2012 was hard. You probably did something great, but I was in hospital. I mean, I believe I was. I don’t remember, I was out of my mind on painkillers.

It was so stupid. A go-karting accident, of all things. Sounds silly, but I guess sometimes things just go badly. I got so smashed up that my pelvis was practically a fine powder. I was told that I’d likely never walk unaided again, and even the idea of me walking again didn’t have brilliant odds. But I decided that a positive, determined attitude would see me through. I spent months in physical therapy but by the end of it I was walking with just a cane.

I guess it seems kind of silly, but I’d always kind of wanted to climb Ben Nevis, so I decided that would be my goal. I’m sure the idea of practicing walking seems weird to many people, but if walking is hard for you, that’s what you need to do, and that’s what I did. And in August, I made the climb. I took the Pony Track, which some put down as the “tourist route”, but for me it was terribly hard. Think about that. A few times there I nearly quit, but I forced myself to do it.

And so I made it to the plateau. This was it. This was what life was all about. I breathed in the crisp, clear mountain air. In the distance, I heard a bird call. I felt the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes! Here I am, world,” I shouted. “You tried to put me down but it didn’t work! I’m still here! Do your woOOOoooOOOOOaaaauuuugh,” I moaned as my backside gave way and released pint after pint of arse gravy into my trousers. “Nooooooooooauhhh!” I screamed as the force of the explosion knocked me over, leaving me writhing in the dirt, honking with misery as liquid bum shame squirted out of the ends of my cloth tubes.

I suppose I shouldn’t have tried to put that spanner up my arse.
(Sun 16th Dec 2012, 1:23, More)

» I Hurt My Rude Bits, Again

Dennis and the Corner
About a year ago my employer held a sexual harassment seminar. It seems one of the mouth-breathing Sales idiots had made yet another attempt to put his hand on as much of one of the rather friendly reception staff as possible, and a complaint was promptly made. Enter the HR drones, and for some reason this incident meant that the rest of us were sent on some idiotic "Sensitivity Seminar", or something like that. To add insult to injury the Sales group didn't even have to attend: "Stop Groping Your Colleagues, You Awful Disgust" apparently being deemed to complex a notion for them, and they were sent on a different seminar, presumably a crash course in "Walking And Breathing At The Same Time."

Before I go on, I do want to say I abhor sexual harassment, and I agree with the notion that the perpetrators should be encouraged to mend their ways. But what I do not understand is why this means that you need to punish a whole host of totally innocent people, including the victims of said harassment, by forcing them to give up their Saturday morning to a full round of condescension and downright creepiness.

For it seems that your average HR mindless, in their haste to correct the matter in as bureaucratic a manner as possible, doesn't stop to consider the possibility that, just because someone runs a sexual harassment seminar, doesn't mean that they themselves aren't a horrendous sex pest.

And so it was with Dennis. Short, fat and balding, he talked like a cross between Anne Widdecombe and Mr. Bean. In those hours 'twixt ten and three, when we weren't being put through a regimen of moronic "self actualisation" exercises and frankly creepy roleplaying scenarios, we were treated to a truly breathtakingly brazen array of gropings, pawings and feelings-up, as he clumsily pretended to manouvre us into the appropriate positions and stances for his "exercises". The HR minions missed all this; having introduced Dennis, they promptly fucked off, presumably to eat a few live kittens.

I was not pleased at all. I'd forgotten all about it and had launched myself on a proper Guinness bender the previous night, and had basically been mainlining coffee all day in an attempt to keep myself conscious.

When he wasn't feeling us up he was giving what I'm sure he thought were rousingly motivational speeches, pacing up and down the front of the lecture room at a substantial pace. It was during one of these scuttling orations that Dennis had a little calamity. Striding briskly forward, he suddenly stopped, his face slowly reddening, sweat beads forming on his brow. He puffed his jowls out as he looked down. He'd managed to walk straight into a tall metal waste-paper bin set next to the whiteboard. Dennis being a squat fellow, the sharp corner of said receptacle had met him squarely in the left bollock.

Time stopped. At last, the pain signal appeared to finally make its way to his brain, and he looked up, taking on a thousand-yard stare as the sweat tricked over his ruddy cheeks.

"WHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?????????????????," he pleaded.

That was too much for the room. We erupted in gales of laughter, none more so than me. Feeling truly wretchedly hungover, and with the memory of his hand burning its shame into my right buttock, I stood up and launched my verbal assault.

"HAHAHHAHA! HA! HAHAHA! Take that you fat pervert! You appalling revolting! It's no more than you deserve! Drink your lesson! Drink it down! That will teach you to STAY ABOUT FROM MY BIUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," I bellowed as my backside gave way to the rectal explosion that was last night's true comeuppance.

"AUGHHH?" I pleaded as my knees gave way to the laxated blast and I fell down, weeping into my own shame.

And that's why we don't have harassment seminars at work any more.

The following week I got chilli on my bellend oh that did not feel good I can tell you!
(Tue 12th Mar 2013, 0:33, More)