b3ta.com user Humpty Dumpty was Pushed
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Profile for Humpty Dumpty was Pushed:
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A hero in my own mind, I lead a bizarrely un-warped double existence. Engineer by day, and Human by night.

I live in a Scandinavian country amongst the Elk and Wolves.

I'd like to clear up the following issues.
I do not own, drive, or even LIKE volvos.
I am not Called Sven.
Nor do I Shmoke a Pipe.
Or Shauna every day.
Or appear in Porn movies

Edit. 19 years is a long time, and my once a week sauna habit ended a few years back. I'm still not called Sven though. /Edit

My photo manipulation skills are second-to-everyone else's, so I tend to stay well away from anything more complex than giving people pointy teeth.
(if there's a "pointy teeth" p-shopping compo, I'll be there like a shot :o)

In lieu of photo-shopping, I tend to play in the "question of the week zone". My life has been weird enough to give me a good deal of disturbing stories to tell.

Childhood Bad Taste, Misunderstood, Near Death experiences and Scars with history are favourites of mine... as is "Worst sex Ever"

I don't do children's parties: I'm not allowed to =(

Also.... 'sup Tommie? đŸ˜‚

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Kids

Bit of an odd one... can't remember the names either...
Well, I tend to use the computer at home a bit, and every now and then people add me to their list at random.

This person wasn't an exception. I ignored the "Hi M8" things and the "ASL?" requests, but no matter what, this annoyance kept on coming back. Sometimes it'd be abusive, sometimes just annoying, but oneday I was bored though, and I decided to accept the challenge of a conversation.

The grammar was non-existent, the spelling was horrific, and the phraseology was right out of Charver 101. I usually Like talking to random lasses, but this one was unreal. Stupid and mind-numbingly immature. I fired off the usual 'off the shelf' insults "work at McD's?" etc... and got a reply that I didn't expect.

"Not old enough to have a job"

oh... alright.. how old was this person? I'd assumed they were about 19...

"Fuck off.. why whould I tell you"
Because I've just been slamming the hell out of you because of your childishness, but maybe you ARE a child and I should be cutting you some slack!!
"Oh... well, I'm 11"
Riiiight. In which case I'm sorry for being mean. I had no idea you where that young

Needless to say I can't remember everything that happened or how it was said... but I'll do my best.

The conversation continued, and we spoke on and off for a few days. I had been wrong. It wasn't a girl either. It was a little lad. He told me he was in the 'web to find some friends or at least someone to talk to, and he asked where I lived. I sent a couple of google links to Swedish picture searches, and he seemed to love the idea of other countries etc. He then said that he wished he could live in another land, but he had to move to London with his mum.

"Really? Why are you moving there?"
My mum says I have to, or she'll chuck me out on the street
"Woah... that's a bit mean. She's probably joking..."
No she's not. She hits me, it really hurts.

*Humpty stops and takes stock*: An 11 yearold Manchestor kid has confided in me... he's unhappy, in need of mates and claims that his mum is violent towards him. 2 options... he's taking me for a ride... (look out for requests for financial support) or he's serious. No harm in talking to the lad... What could possibly go wrong?

"She hits you?"
That's not good, why does she do that?
I don't know. She said she wishes I was dead, and that I'm ruining her life.
Have you told anyone?
No, I don't want to. My sister and my mum like each other.
Right. Let's get this straight. Your mum hits you, and it makes you unhappy.. and you haven't told anyone?
Well that's wrong. Your mum is supposed to help you as you grow up, not hit you. You *really* need to tell someone and talk to them about it.
Yeah, but who?
Teachers. You could try telling them?
I'm not good at school, the teachers don't like me
That doesn't matter. This is FAR more important than school, and they will know that. They'll help. It doesn't even have to be one of your teachers. Pick someone you like, or one of your friend's teachers and ask if you can talk to them... Tell them everything that you've told me.
Are you sure that'll be ok?
Yes. Absolutely. That's what teachers are for. Teaching is only a bit of their job, looking after pupils is what it's ALL about.
and I'll be here as usual... ok?


I heard nothing for a couple of days... then a girl named Haley added me to her list.

She started out with "You don't know me but you know my brother."
*Oh shit... here we go: Kiddy-fiddling accusations..*
"I just wanted to say thankyou. I think you may have saved his life...."

It turned out that the day after I took the time to speak with him properly, he'd walked into school, and with a thumping heart, had walked up to his maths teacher - for whom he had some respect - and told him exactly what he'd told me.

According to his sister who'd been at home that day, police turned up at her mum's doorstep at midday and took her away. Both she and her brother were now living with their biological dad, and they were both really enjoying it.

The night that all this had happened and after social services had spoken to them both, Her little brother then went and sat on her bed and pulled his shirt up - for the first time ever his sister found out that her mum had been beating him. He was covered in bruises - all over his body. He told her about talking t me, and he told her that he's been thinking of killing himself: his classmates had surmised that this was probably his only option anyway.

So... she thanked me for being there when he needed someone, and giving good advice in a way that he could identify with it. It was a pretty cool feeling.


Kids might type like shit...
They may not embrace correct grammar..
They may really piss you off...
They might swear and spit...

...but underneath, some of them are just lost little kids.

Don't write them all off.. not yet.
(Mon 21st Apr 2008, 12:28, More)

» The worst sex I ever had

Fishy Mimsy.. and absoloutly NOT for the reason you'd expect...
Despite having slept with terrible shags, potato-sack stylee lovers, people who raked my manhood with thier teeth, and those who's genital hygene can be likened to that of a corpse, this has to be the worst night of amourous missadventure in my life.


I'm going to apoligise in advance, and suggest that if you're eating, skip this and come back later.

Ere we go.. are you sitting comfortably? good.

I live in Sweden...

... and have in the past mentioned Surströmming and the violent aroma. If you doubt my wisdom, go and play with youtube. You'll find all sorts of people being violated by putrid fish smells.

Now.. Midsummer in Sweden is one HELL of a party. I've been here for a good few years, and I can't remember a single Midsummer where people haven't got royally rat-arsed, or fallen over while dancing round the giant phallic symbol that we erect for the party: Rinsing your recently abused pallette of rotten fish with large quantities of Vodka and Akvavit can get you more drunk than you'd care to imagine.. but as for the frog-dance there is no excuse.

Anyway... there's lots of rampant alcohol fuelled shagging that goes on. This night I was going to become another statistic.

6am, and the missus and I have swayed home in the lazy and meandering way that the drunks have perfected over an eternity of liver-abuse... We were determined to nail each other to the bed when we get home. Now.. to be fair to her she was awesome in bed, it's just that this night was about to go wrong. Terribly terribly wrong.

We'd both been drikning for nearly 12 hours straight. We were both obscenely drunk... and I was having difficulty getting hard. I could hardly keep my body erect, let alone Mr Winky. Missus Humpty decided that - as sitting on my face was always a dead-cert for trouser-snake charming - she'd hoik her dress up, and ride my tongue.. This she did. Rather hard. I'm not only used to this, but a great fan to boot. My tongue worked away at her feverishly, her cute puckered barking-spider a bare few milimeters from my nose. I was in heaven, and riding my face like a drunken pro, so was she.

She was sat in the perfect position to tug away at any signs of life, and as she and I both neared the point of no return I - mouth full of mimsy - was forced to heave air through my nose at a colossal rate, much like a jet-fighter at full throttle just before take-off....

We both came.... and - as fate would have it - the orgasm ripping through her body caused her to grind down harder on my face.. and fart: forecefully injecting un-diluted rectal gasses into my air-hungry nose.

A FULLL force, and totally ripe, hot Surströmming fart (far worse than the initial burst of smell from the tin), CLEAN up my nostrils. The reaction was instant.. and completely unaware of her crime and mistaking my convulsions as throws of exstacy, Mrs Humpty ground down harder on my face as I gasped for air.. The enormity of my horror peaked as, in the full grip of natural bolidy rejection, I hoyed my stomach's content, including a large amount of undigested, rotten fish, straight up her pink mitten.

As the fetid herring now deeply stuck in my nostrils caused me to start a gagging fit that would go on to last an apparent eternity, She ran screaming to the bathroom with rotten fish, stomach acid and alcohol dribbling from her burning mimsy.

Oh how we laughed. (much much MUCH later)
(Fri 15th Jun 2007, 18:29, More)

» Desperate Times

Oh Dear..

I've written about this before, but I can't be arsed to find the post.


Wanking when young was an act of desperation... It was to fulfil a need. Wanking in later years became more of an art-form... finding novel ways to achieve the ultimate goal became my vocation, and if you can imagine it, I've probably tried it.

You've read about my horrifying disaster with a napkin ring, when, though a series of errors and ignorance around the working of the erectile properties of the one-eyed trouser-gopher I ended up on my knees, engorged and metal-clad cock in one hand and Dremel in the other... This one however falls below that in terms of horrifying moments... but none-the-less represents what must be one of man's more horrific blunders in the name of self gratification.

The phrase to describe man's needs "Warm, tight and wet" is, in honesty a bit bland, but as a teenager in love with ejaculation, my goal was to replicate those conditions, and Fuck it. A typical week's R&D would go like this...

Hot Sponge.
This proved to be too "cleaning" and I cleaned a lot of skin off my bellend. Ouch.

Hot Sponge Mod 1.
With Soap!! (see, I wasn't stupid). Cleans skin off bellend, and STINGS MORE. BUGGER.

Hot Spoinge with "Shammy" leather liner.
Smooooth and yummy. With added Body lotion... Better! SUCCESS!!! (but leaves weird streaks on the car)

Most teenagers are infamous for spending suspiciously long in the bathroom... I possibly had them trumped by being the only lad who'd take half the garage with him.

What I though would be the culmination of my work would the the only logical extension of the "shagging an orange" theory. Oranges are acidic, they have sharp pips and they are SMALL. We needed something less acidic and larger. MELONS!!!

The only thing that a melon naturally lacked was warmth.

My parents were out, I used to live in the country, and we had just got a microwave. Excellent. Not one to master the power settings, I plumped for "turbo". I nuked the melon in 30 second bursts, waiting until the outside felt good and warm. 5 minutes later we were ready to rock.

I retired upstairs with a hole-saw and a drill, and proceeded to remove a neat 52mm diameter slice of potentially sharp and hard skin.. This was going to be sublime... then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, I poked a "pilot" hole into the soft melon-flesh.... it was easy....

I nudged my teenage boy-hood, soft and forgiving melon-flesh grudgingly gave way, and satisfied that I'd found a perfect home for my throbbing friend, I thrust home.....


My mum noticed a week or two later that the "burn-eze" was no long near the stove, but I never let on. That tube lasted for 3 weeks... I then had to use Savlon.

Apparently (I learned later on) the hardish parabolic skin of a melon concentrates the microwaves into the center. As I'd penetrated through the center it felt far softer than the rest... not only that, but it fizzed. I had become possibly the first person to thrust into a sugar-rich BOILING center of a cantaloupe.

I walked funny for a month.
(Thu 15th Nov 2007, 14:55, More)

» Desperate Times

Ahh fukkit.... I might as well spit it out...
I may or may not have mentioned this before.

*hangs head in shame*

One night last year: Particularly bored and on a bit of a low (relationship not going the right way) I was sat watching episodes of Simpson's back-to-back, Drinking Guinness and getting slightly hungry.

Hmm.. hungry. I'd been feeling down for the entire weekend and it was sunday afternoon. Outside it was drizzling, My mates were elsewhere and lazyness was beginning to reach new levels.

NOTE: This may get long... Skip to the starry line if you're semi-illiterate.

Earlier that day I'd been to Netto (yes, we do have them in Sweden) and bought a catering pack of sugary peanuts. I hauled my slightly tipsy arse off the sofa pottered into the kitchen, got another can and a bowl, picked up the Netto bag and - after filling the bowl with peanuts - hunkered down on the sofa again.

I don't remember much more of that afternoon: I just remember feeling rather sorry for myself and dragging my sorry arse off to bed at midnight, ruing the fact that I'd have to go to work in the morning.

Monday came and went.

Tuesday rolled along... and then went away as Tuesdays do.

Wednesday was when it started to get a little strange: In the afternoon I started to feel a bit crap. My lunch hadn't really wanted to go down so I'd sat and chatted... by 3pm I was beginning to sweat. "Flu" I thought. I set off home and collapsed infront of the TV with a bowl of sugar puffs.

20 minutes later I was sat on the bathroom floor with a nose-full of sugar puffs. I'd emptied my stomach the wrong way. No warning. Weird.

I hate the Flu... It knocks me for six once it's beaten my immune system. I headed to bed and had a shit night.


A day later and my stomach was in pain: very un-fluish. I was beginning to wonder what might be going on.... Working my way chronologically though my past meals - there weren't many; When I'm down I forget to eat - there was nothing that rang alarm bells until my mind latched onto the peanuts... Jesus no..

I went to the livingroom: There on the table was the empty bag. 2Kg of peanuts. Nice one Humpty you utter arse-hat: you've pigged out on 2kg of peanuts, and turned yourself into a walking peanut-butter Keg.

The Days - unlike the stools - had been passing. Somewhere inside me was the wrong kind of log-jam... If anyone says "butter-nut-squash" I'll kill them =(

Now.. single, Living alone and with my mum a long way away in another country, I did what any self-respecting male would do: I went back to bed.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm no professional when it comes to chronic constipation: I reasoned that the blockage needs encouragement and movement. I massaged my stomach, wriggled around a bit and occasionally would jump up and down. It failed. I failed.

In frustration I gave my stomach and belly area a good thumping (I'm an engineer, and it's always a fairly good last resort) and at least It felt better.

It was a few hours later while watching Jack-ass and Johnny Knoxville getting his colon hosed out that I hit upon a plan. By this time my temperature was going amusingly high and I was feeling *really* shit: It was a surprise that I was capable of any sort of rational thought, but this was it. A stroke of Genuis. McGuyver was trumped.

10 minutes later I had modified my shower hose and essentially had a mix between a super-soaker and Cartman's worse nightmare. Let me tell you that shoving a squirting hosepipe up your ass is hilarious. I had already researched the concept of this pass-time online.. and had discovered that the time to Stop the filling was "when you felt uncomfortable". Mmmkay. :o/

My first effort was a dismal failure. maybe a tablespoon of water? so "When you feel uncomfortable" may not have been entirely accurate. You lasses who whine about "water retention" and "being bloated": you have No Fucking Idea!!!

I had to grit my teeth and go for it. A couple of minutes later and grunting like a hippo in labour I managed to manouvre myself over the toilet before exploding. The sheer relief in itself was worth it... but there was nowt solid to show.

Another Sitting.

... The overpowering odour of Rancid Peanut-crap was horrifying.... though already ill, sweating and committed, I knew it was the smell of victory.

Re-Fill and Puuuurge.

I noted that accidentally turning the water cold was a terrible plan.. The barking spider puckered HARD and threatened NEVER to let ANYTHING out.

Fix the temperature... Re-Fill and Purge again.

It took 30 minutes, but it was an overall success. Within an hour I was starting to feel fine again.

A few days later I was offered a bowl of those sugary peanuts at a party.

I then realised that it had taken Me 30 minutes of watered-down rancid peanutty shit, and from that point on the mere smell of peanuts successfully induced involuntary bodily actions: Pavlov was a mere amateur.

Nuts to the length.
(Mon 19th Nov 2007, 13:30, More)

» Going Too Far

i'm going to hell.
have just stagered gome af sast as i can from party
still very drunk
it's 1:16 am here.
have just shagged my mate's girlfriend on the balcony.. 'not good. not good at all.
miniskirts: great
too much drink: bad.,
(Sun 12th Nov 2006, 0:18, More)
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