b3ta.com user kithkill
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for kithkill:
Profile Info:


Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Evil Pranks

One more.

When I first left home, I figured it was time I threw away the teddy bear I'd owned for as far back as I could remember. I was a grown man (well, teenager) for god's sake, I'm never gonna need it again, so it's going in the skip! And it did. And it looked at me, and I relented. Teddy was saved.

Some time later, whilst living with my mate and his mum, I decided that enough was enough. The possibility existed, no matter how small, that a real live woman might one day see the inside of my bedroom, and no way was that bear gonna put me off my stroke (or, more accurately, put her off shagging me). In the wheelie bin he went, first thing in the morning on my way out of the house, before anyone else was up. He looked up at me as I covered him with another bin bag.

Got home that evening, everything was normal until I went upstairs, and there, on the bed, was the bear. Like he owned the place. And he was looking at me. I near shat myself. The guilt of throwing away my childhood companion coupled with the sheer incredulity upon him somehow (obviously) climbing out of his rubbish-filled grave to hunt me down for vengeance made me feel a little wobbly.

My landlady had spotted a little bear paw when she went to add another binbag to the wheelie bin and decided that I couldn't possibly have wanted to throw him away, so pulled him out.\

Cut to a few months later. It's a party, I'm kinda drunk, somebody mentions the bear. I decide that enough is enough, and this time he's not coming back. Into the kitchen, and off with his head courtesy of the bread-knife. Into the bin and finally, the fucker's dead.

Cut to about eighteen months after that. Another party, drunk again, and as I lurch into my bedroom there, on the bed, is teddy. With a series of Frankenstein like stitches holding his head on. My bastard mate had kept the thing for that long just so he could fuck with me. Thankfully he stopped short of the red LEDs he'd wanted to install in its eyes.

That night the bear was doused in lighter fluid and burned. It was the only way to be sure.

Insert length here.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 20:31, More)

» Evil Pranks

Evil Dad
Not me, but a dear mate of mine. His father is one of those people termed "a character". He's a bit weird by normal standards, but I really like the guy, and sometimes even envy my mate a little for the great relationship he has with his dear ol' Pa.

This is the guy who enjoys nudging his son in the ribs, pointing at his mum and saying in a conspiratorial whisper "I've had her." Followed by "She was great."

He's also fond of pranks. The one I found most horrifying was when my mate clawed his way towards consciousness (typically late in the day) and turned over to find his dad lying in bed with him, stark bollock naked. "Hello son," he said, looking down into his son's confused and bleary eyes, in his very best impression of the Kurgan. (I should point out that my mate is very much an adult, not a kid, so although it would be a lie to say that there was nothing freaky going on, at least it's self-inflicted freakiness - he deserves what he gets for still living at home).

His dad also enjoys rabbit every once in a while, and like eskimos and whales, he needs to use every part of the rabbit. Which is why my mate has woken up to a dismembered rabbit's head on his pillow, like some bizarre homage to The Godfather, and one memorable morning found a rabbit's head in his coffee. Staring at him, and bobbing up and down faintly.

His dad also enjoys using the word c**t in front of his mother-in-law, who just accepts this as normal these days and calls him "a bit rude". I find this *fantastic*.
(Thu 13th Dec 2007, 17:58, More)

» What nonsense did you believe in as a kid?

Chemical weapons
When I was but a wee bairn, I used to live on an RAF base. Quite a coincidence, as my dad also happened to be in the RAF. This base - RAF West Raynham - was essentially in the middle of nowhere (i.e. Norfolk), and our house was on the very edge of the married quarters estate. Nothing out the back of the house except lots and lots of fields.

Specifically, there was a place in those fields. A special place, beloved of all the local kids in quarters. At the point where a number of fields joined, there was this little area we all called Mud Hill. This place was *amazing*.

The titular Mud Hill was essentially exactly that - a giant (to our tiny legs) mound of excavated earth that the farmer had obviously moved at some point, probably (I'm having to fill in the blanks here) pushed up against a natural bit of hill. But there was much more to it than that. Behind Mud Hill was a small copse of trees, and if you walked around the outer edge of the copse there were all kinds of interesting sites. Mud Hill, the biggest obviously. Then a long ridge. One year there was a dead animal of some kind a bit further round. Then some cool trees. And so on.

But perhaps the most mysterious relic on this sightseeing tour around the copse was an area of rough ground littered with chunks of brickwork. Not bricks, but entire sections of brick wall just lying around. All had come from some structure that had been knocked down, and the lower portions of some of the walls were still in situ. To a kid it was like walking around the Planet of the Apes, seeing the ruins of some mysterious civilization. What was the building? Why was it knocked down? (Or more likely exploded, we decided.)

All would become clear one summer afternoon, the day the big kids came.

It was strange, to have our supposedly secret retreat invaded by older kids. They were probably about 12 or 13, but to our eyes they were practically adults. And it was one of these scroaty bastards who told me *exactly* what that brick building had been. It was, he whispered conspiratorially, eyes flicking left and right furtively as he leaned in towards me, "... a bunker".

A what?

"Y'know, a secret bunker." This wasn't wholly unbelievable. After all, we all lived on a military base. Every time we drove past the entrance to the base we'd be driving past an enormous, decorative Bulldog missile. When we went to church in a tiny portacabin on-base on a Sunday, we'd have to stop at the gate and a man with a torch with a mirror attached to it would occasionally look under the car for bombs. Y'know, if he was bored and there was nothing decent on the radio in the guard hut. These kinds of concepts were not entirely alien to me, young as I was.

"What sort of bunker?" I asked.

"It's where they had all these chemical weapons. Things that make you ill, and then you die!" (or words to that effect).

"Wow!" I whispered hoarsely. I mean, how cool was that? And then suddenly the quiet moment of revelation was gone. Probably because some kids had found some sticks, or I needed a wee, or god knows why. I trotted off and continued to play around the field of bricks.

This, of course, would therefore be the first day I ever got hayfever. Twatsocks.

By the time I get home, my eyes are red and streaming. Nobody seemed to notice, but all I wanted to do was rub my eyes over and over. My nose was running. It all came on so suddenly! I had never heard of hayfever, nobody in my family had it. And as the symptoms got worse and worse, I suddenly knew what had happened. Whatever was in those chemical weapons, I'd breathed it in, or touched it, or something! There was only one way this would end.

I was going to die.

I manfully choked my dinner down. I said goodbye to my toys. I got ready for bed. But as my mum came to tuck me in, my bottom lip started to quiver. This would be the last time I ever saw her. She asked me what was wrong, and I decided - knowing that I'd almost certainly get into trouble for playing with chemical weapons - to tell her.

I suspect I was probably very relieved when she laughed in my face.
(Thu 19th Jan 2012, 7:55, More)

» Misunderstood

Head and Shoulders
Next time you see the current "Head and Shoulders" advert ("Would you put dandruff in this picture?"), allow your brain to cut off the last few syllables of the phrase "... with a splash of sea-minerals".

First time I watched it, the filthy side of my brain was in ascendance, and I'd spluttered my drink all over myself before they'd finished speaking the last word.
(Fri 7th Oct 2005, 15:51, More)

» Shit Stories

Cat's are clean my arse...
About six months ago I got made redundant, and moved into my girlfriend's temporarily in order to live cheap whilst looking for a new job. This was made slightly awkward due to the fact that I own a cat (a twitchy neurotic little fucker called "Baggy"), and my girlfriend owned two. In order to introduce him to the other two gradually, we kept him shut up in the spare room, from which he escaped one day via a daring leap from the upstairs window.

The search for Baggy is a story unto itself (involving daring treks from one side of town to the other and back, and a cast including most of the stars from "The Aristocats"). But come back he did, about a week later. After a brief period of fuss, we fed him up (he was ravenous) and sat with him to settle him a bit. Now, because he was shut in the spare room, we'd had to rig up a litter tray for him, as he couldn't get out (at least, that was the idea - grr...). Straight after eating several times hiw own body weight, his stomach rumbled and he trotted off to the litter tray to shit.

Trouble was, in the absence of humans to feed him, and because he's an incredibly inept predator, he'd had pretty much nothing to eat for a week except grass. And cats can't digest grass. So as he squatted over the litter tray, what should emerge from his arse but a thick, tangled rope woven from shit, grass and digestive juices. That's not the worst bit - the worst bit is that he only got it halfway out, then got stuck. So he was trailing this shit-rope around behind him, scared and confused by this smelly extra tail he'd grown. So I had to grab him, grip him firmly and then (using wads of paper towels as impromptu gloves/forceps) pull the shit-rope out of him. He didn't like this, no sirree. He didn't like this one bit. There was yowling, and squirming, and the absolute worst bit was that I could feel the instant at which my cat let go of it - the instant he gave up and stopped clamping his feline sphincter against this unwarranted anal attack.

Poor little bastard. I'm sorry, Baggy, but you stank.
(Fri 7th May 2004, 15:01, More)
[read all their answers]