b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Killed to DEATH » Page 2 | Search
This is a question Killed to DEATH

Speedevil asks: What have you killed? Accidentally, or on purpose. Concepts, species, a man in Reno, the career of a well-known entertainer, or anything else.

(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 13:18)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

For one whole English pound
...back when that seemed like riches I ate a live lacewing. Unfortunately Sister just laughed and no money was forthcoming. Git.
(, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 1:21, Reply)
I put a rat out of its misery
Had a bit of an infestation of rats once. We'd trap them, poison them but rarely see them alive. One day I saw a rat walking slowly across the garden - not their usual lightning dashes around the edge. It ended up hiding in the base of a big palm plant. I went out with a large axe to see what happened to it. It then sort of wobbled out, and tried to make it unsucessfully through some thick crab grass. The reason it wasn't moving so fast? was a collection of bot fly larvae emerging on its belly slowing it down. These things were bright pink, about the size of your pinky finger, and there were about 20 of them. They probably weighed as much as the rat.

I dispatched the rat with the axe.

Then watched in absolute vomiting disgust as the larvae (and loads more of their brethren which emerge upon the death of the host) wriggled off into the ground.

Google "botfly and rat" images for some lovely Christmasy cheer.

(, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 1:15, Reply)
This is on the internets so clearly a lie.
I killed a sheep once, didn't mean to. It just sort of was there.

My aunt's MENTAL brother took me shooting once on a holiday up in Lewis. He had a hunting rifle and let me shoot it. Stupid fuck got me to aim at a fence. The fence was there to pen in sheep.

Yeah, guns do have quite a kick and that. Poor fucking sheep.
(, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 0:35, 6 replies)
I killed the spirit of christmas.

I caught the bastard trying to steal my Jaffa Cakes so i beat him to death with a packet of baby wipes!
(, Fri 23 Dec 2011, 0:02, 1 reply)
Roadkill is my speciality.
The weirdest thing I've ever killed in my car has to be mackerel. I was driving across a causeway in a storm and a wave deposited a shoal of mackerel over the road ahead of me which I promptly ran over.

The second most unusual road-kill occurred when driving home at night, in a blizzard. I managed to hit a sheep which had unwisely decided that a white animal sitting on a snow covered road was a good idea. (Not an uncommon occurrence here, most people have at least one sheep related insurance claim.)

As the sheep was dead it went in the back of the car for a fitting disposal (I was going to eat it). Unfortunately, a reasonable amount of blood and guts had deposited itself over the engine and resulted in a sickly smell of roast lamb through the cabin for the rest of the drive home and I couldn't face eating lamb for months afterwards.

I know of someone who reportedly did the same with a deer. He hit it and loaded it into the back of his Volvo estate. Pity it wasn't dead and just stunned. About a mile down the road it woke up and as you might expect panicked, totalling the car from the inside. I'd have loved to see the insurance claim for that.

(In a karma balancing moment I once helped refloat a beached whale so in terms of weight of things I've accidently killed versus what I've saved I'm in credit.)
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 23:51, 5 replies)
If you vortex them in acetone the blue comes out.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 23:29, 1 reply)
Horse flies
On hot summer days we used to collect them as they buzzed around trying to bite us. When it was dark we would break off the abdomen, stick a strip of toilet paper to the amputation site, light it and let the bugger go. They would fly until the paper was burnt up to the point they were nose heavy, then they would crash.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 23:02, 4 replies)
I'll just pop this here.
Could also do with a bit of this as well.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 22:50, Reply)
House Plants
I have the uncanny knack of killing every house plant that comes in my house. Be it from neglect, over watering, feeding the plants coffee, piss, beer, mucus, blood (once tried to fertilise a rubber plant using MY fertiliser). They all last roughly 6ish months then they wither and die.

Fuck knows what im doing wrong, however I am able to cultivate blue mould behind the u-bend of the khazi!
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 22:33, 2 replies)
One of my previous residences developed a mouse problem (after a building opposite was demolished un-funnily enough).

I being a big brave soul was the jumpiest screamiest girly bloke ever .. something had to be done!

Traps were set and worked for a few of them (they love chocolate and also peanut butter too!) but the few I killed "To death" were clever trap dodging bastards! they'd set the traps off and wait before eating whatever was on it!
I managed to catch one returning for it's feast and promptly twatted it with the mop (breaking the mop in half and only stunning the wee shite!), I then used the broken end of the mop to crush the life out of it!

another time, i emptied the kitchen bin leaving it bagless and lidless for literally 30 seconds, and returning to find one inside jumping like fook trying to escape..

So i casually boiled the kettle... waited... and Poured!

(mice scream!)
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 22:24, 9 replies)
'Let's keep chickens' says the missus
'No' says I.
'go on, it'll be ace' and thus began a few months of persuasion and research and budgeting, until she's exhausted all my reasons not to fill our garden with noisy, shitting, smelly birds.
Of course, I'm the one that has to build the coop. I'm the one that has to go to the farm to buy 8 shit-covered and miserable birds 'for my birthday.'
And, when one's arse prolapses and it gets very, VERY unwell, I'm the one that has to do the 'decent thing'. Brilliant.
So my research begins. Google 'how to kill a chicken.' Really. There are a surprisingly large number of youtube videos (all horrible), and websites offering tips and techniques. And eventually I decide on my tactics.
I take poorly chicken out of the run and into my shed (out of view of the other birds - I'm nice like that). I soothe her, I calm her down, I try not to get prolapsed arse blood on my jumper.
I take her head between my index and middle finger (confused, low, squawking)
I brace myself, then jerk her head downwards and back sharply. This I understand will break her neck and kill her.
I withstand the attempts at flapping that buffet me, as I have been led to believe this is a chickeny death-spasm and is OK.
I wait a bit, then let go of the head, expecting a floppy bird. INSTEAD, she shakes her head, does a massive sick and looks deep into my soul with baleful and distressed eyes. SHIT! She's NOT DEAD.
I'm now in a world of fear. I had not expected mrs chicken to be alive at this point and I have no back up plan or indeed, coping mechanism.
Right, try it again. Snappy movement. Flapping. An alive chicken. FUCK!
OK just fucking strangle it! i bend her neck completely over and hold the neck very tight, and wait. 2, 3 minutes until, hoping desperately, it's dead. My fingers are now numb from the pressure, the chicken sick is dry on my boot. I'm shaking and, thank fuck, she's dead.

Anybody want to buy 7 chickens, and a coop? Going cheap.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:59, 9 replies)
Road kill
I have run over the following

Hedgehog (it made a crunching sound)
A Grouse
A Duck
A Cute fluffy white Cat :( (sorry)
A Golden Eagle (driving along the side of Loch Ness)

The cat was the worst, i was in a big 4x4 and didn't want to see the mess so I drove on
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:37, Reply)
I'm telling this story for someone else,
because I doubt he'll ever post it here himself. I won't second-guess his motivation as I've never known his name, the man, his character, his face. What I do know for certain, and this is all one needs to know for the purpose of this tale, is that at some point towards the end of the year two thousand, in the wet and windy wee small hours of the morning, he climbed into the cab of a laden dump-truck, kicked the engine in and pulled off into the night somewhat the worse for wear with drink.

The protagonist of the piece, one Nameless Bob, looked into a shop window, smooth, dark, reflective, admiring his own reflection. He leaned slightly, and laughed to himself. It was around five am, and he was pilled off his tits. He mocked his own grinning face with his hands Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box

Nameless Bob had a journey to undertake, a quest. He had to navigate his way from the club he had been to back to his place of residence, a hostelry where he lived and worked with a certain cs1ca, in the shadow of centrepoint, opposite soho. It was walking distance, around half an hour, but he was now in chinatown. This was not the way home. He was meandering, but at least he wasn't lost. He drifted through chinatown, all arches and strange phoneboxes, windows full of dead, skinned things. He reached an arterial road and turned right. He thought it was right. Was it left? Maybe. Right seemed good. He continued right.

He stopped suddenly and flipped his head back. He wanted to see the stars. For a second he looked skyward, disappointed by light pollution. He felt himself jolt as he was struck from behind. He grabbed a sign to steady himself as he fell forward.

"Watch were you are going, mither fickeur" cursed the stomping, surly frenchman as he barged past. I love you, stomping, surly frenchman, thought Nameless Bob. He looked at himself in the nearest window. His reflection grinned back. Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.

Nameless Bob ambled down the street. He stumbled off the kerb and walked a short way in the road. He hopped back onto the pavement. The frenchman stomped and surled up ahead, now a distant silhouette. Follow him, he knows where he's going. Ahead was the intersection of two main roads. The frenchman approached it, and looking left stomped out into the street.

Nameless Bob turned his head to track the frenchman as he ragdolled through the air. The dump truck skidded into vision from right to left, its wheels locked, spray arcing backwards from the damp road. The frenchman hit the road and his head exploded, to quote Nameless Bob, 'like a watermelon'.

The truck had stopped. The driver dropped from the door and landed awkwardly, as he was worse for wear with drink. As Nameless Bob arrived on the scene the driver fell to his knees. 'What have I done?', he screamed, 'what have I done?'.

Nameless Bob glanced between the driver and the frenchman and back. He pointed.

"Well, mate, I think you've just killed that bloke".
The driver looked at him and cried some more drunken tears.

Nameless Bob realised that he knew the way home. He crossed the road and walked away. The man stayed sobbing on his knees. Soon there were sirens.

Big Fish, Little Fish, Card-Board-Box.

On a serious note, kids, remember that drugs are bad, and that if you drink and drive you are a massive cunt.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:33, 1 reply)
I heard if you put one in a ring of fire it stings itself to death.

Had to try it.

It did die, but not by its own methods. The fuel I'd put down to make the circle of flames soaked in to the sand without me realising. Went to light it and in a flash the scorpion was cooked and I lost my eyebrows.

Don't fuck with scorpions.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:31, 1 reply)
I have taken a massive arsenic overdose,,,
,,,and a belladonna overdose a year later. Nothing happened, as expected, as I was taking a 30C dilution of these in homeopathic sugar pill form. There probably wasn't a molecule of the "active" ingredient in the room.

So, as a participant in a publicity stunt, I am guilty of trying to kill the market for the amnesiac water-fondlers.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 21:22, 1 reply)
My dog is a deadbeat.
Catching a rabbit is no deal for him.
Killing them is no option whatsoever, so he simply holds them until they starve.
(Did you know rabbits can scream loud enough
to attract a dozen neighbors within 2 minutes?)
So i had to do the killing once again.
Hitting it with a broomstick seemed like the quick-and-dirty approach.
Guess what - the rabbit lived longer than than the broomstick.

Only 30 seconds, but the rabbit won!
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 19:57, Reply)
Interesting reading this thread about killing......
....dont most serial killers start out by killing/torturing animals?

Yes, I am a carnivore and I have probably eaten several cows, chickens, pigs, etc

But I dont think I have ever set out to deliberately kill an animal and I don't think I particularly like those who have
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 19:51, 20 replies)
First ever fishing trip, with my dad. Happily catching tiddlers, and popping them in the keep net (inbetween snagging the nearby trees, with our enthusiastic casting), content in the knowledge that small fish don't really notice when they get a hook through their lips.
One little fella comes out the water, but he's swallowed the hook. Dad extracts the hook, along with the little fishy's guts. Sad faces all round, especially on the fish. We pop him in the keep net, to see if he'll get better. He didn't.
Didn't bother much with fishing, after that.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 19:37, 6 replies)
A friend told me how her first hamster died:
Her mum reached into the cage to pet it, and the hamster bit her. Startled, she yanked her hand back, not realising that the rodent was still attached. Due to the wonderful laws of momentum, the hamster flew like a fluffy potato through the air, until its wonderful journey was interrupted rather rudely by the living room wall.

The mum grabs the rather flatter hamster and puts it back into the cage, tucking bedding around it, and when my friend got back from primary school she was told that poor Hammy died in his sleep. Awww.

And the strange reddish stain on the wall in the shape of a splayed out hamster? Ketchup.

She told me she only found out the truth when her mum admitted it to her, aged fifteen.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 19:36, 1 reply)
I'm pretty sure I broke my girlfriends vagina.
Its bleeding :(
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 19:02, 2 replies)
or more accurately Richardson's Ground squirrels. Cute little chaps but dumb as dogshit and prone to being run over. Here they are used as target practice for kids learning to shoot and are amusingly hard of thinking when it comes their own personal safety.
They have habit of standing up like a sort of redneck Meerkat and not moving when a car passes them by. This means that a game of "how close can I get without spilling the jam" can be played.

Sometimes I misjudge and it's a little bump and lights out for Mr G.

This local town had the best idea though, shoot 'em, stuff 'em and make a display of anthropomorphised silliness. And the whole concept pissed off PETA and various other animal rights groups. Wonderful.


(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:57, 3 replies)
Well there was this one time in The Algarve

(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:45, 5 replies)
More threads than I care to (or could) recall

(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:40, Reply)
King of the Hill
I once tried to trap a mole which was destroying my lawn. I'd read that i needed to bang a spade immediately in front of the newest hill, and immediately behind it, then dig like mad until I'd extracted the mole, whereupon I could gently lob it over the garden fence into the adjacent woodland.

Theory is brilliant, no?

Bang, in goes spade no.1. Bang in goes spade no.2. Let the digging commence.

Out comes two halves of a very recently deceased mole.

Oh dear.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:22, 7 replies)
Snuffle snuffle snuffle
"Bright eyes... Burning like fire... Bright eyes..." Wait! That's flippin' rabbits you twat! All right all right... "Flea bags cut up by mower; flea bags eaten by gypsy sorts. When you snuffle round our garden, hadn't you best watch out? Flee-ee bags." Eee. It fair brings a tear to me eye, that does.

We don't garden all that often; it's mainly to do with the fact we don't have the correct equipment. Where we could do with a petrol chainsaw to deal with our wild Leylandii and where we could do with a petrol lawnmower to handle the grass we've got a crap cordless trimmer and a shitty old hover mower beloved by those who actually care for their garden areas. And it's a hassle. And it's annoying. And our grass is too long for it. And you have to make use of sheer brute strength to swing it wildly around the grassy areas... And as such you have no control. And besides which, it always bloody rains and you've got to run indoors and when the Missus goes out with the little un, a week or so later to complete the job you cowardly left to a mild drizzle; it's not the nicest thing for them to come across, the rotting corpse of poor Mrs Tiggywinkle.

Not least when I point out her little baby hedge-me-hogs will most likely have died as well.

At least Waitrose have a local Hedgehog sanctuary as one of their chosen charities at the moment so I can assuage my guilt with their little green tokens at the expense of Marie Curie cancer care.

So my story is that I have killed lots of people with cancer.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:16, 4 replies)
Carpenter bees.
By which I mean these little buggers.

They're not hostile, and I have never been stung by one. But the little bastards bore a perfectly round 1/2" diameter hole in the boards of my porch to nest in.

My solution? Whenever I see one hovering around the porch I get out an old tennis racquet and play Bee Tennis. Nothing is more satisfying than doing an Andre Agassi imitation and feeling the ping of the little body, and seeing it go shooting off across the yard.

(My nephew used to do the same to fireflies to see the glowing spray, but I happen to love fireflies.)
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:12, 3 replies)
I killed Bambi
My truck is a deer magnet, 20 plus terrifying near misses, 3 hits and 2 fatalities last year. $3000 worth of damage plus dents I haven't claimed for.
Poor little Bambi made a last minute cat-style dash for it after the mother had crossed and I bounced over her, both wheels, crunchity bumpity squelch.
I had to go back and shoo the mother away from the corpse to drag the body off the road. Oh the shame.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:11, Reply)
with my car. The squirrel was suicidal and leaped in front of my car. Why do squirrels become depressed and say, "Nuts to nuts. I'm ending it all with uncle_bud's car."? They have such an easy life: caging nuts from park-goers. Running up and down trees. Not a care in the world.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 18:11, Reply)
There's really no more satisfying way of killing flies and wasps
than the "electric tennis racket".
Available from your local pound shop.

....almost inaudible dying Spitfire noise....
....crunch of fly underfoot*
Yet I'll happily usher any spider to safety, for they are nice and eat nasty bugs.
(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 17:53, 1 reply)
In so many ways and forms. A phobia, you see, does strange things to a person. One minute your minding your own buisness, the next your punching a pile of washing like Bruce Lee becuase a giant house spider made you jump.

I'm not proud of myself, but sometimes it really is me or the spider becuase I aint staying in a room with one lurking in.

It was only since I discovered hoovers and long attachments has it become a mundane task instead of an epic battle of wits and nerve.

Although I have got braver with the smaller ones, what with growing old and discovering mortality and all that shit I've started to save a few of the 8 legged fuck faces.

(, Thu 22 Dec 2011, 17:33, 1 reply)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1