b3ta.com user squirrels emit silent screams
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for squirrels emit silent screams:
Profile Info:

32 year old, bearded halfwit living in Bristol.

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Messing with the Dark Side

When I was about 11, I borrowed a book from the local library called 'The Devils of D-Day' - a book on how the allies called upon supernatural and evil powers in order to win the 2nd world war.

In the book is an incantation, recital of which is meant to raise a particularly repugnant beast called 'Adramelech' the 'Chancellor of Hell'.

I was a gawky lad. Tall, almost impossibly lanky, achingly geeky and with a mawkish streak wider than Goatse's impressive opening. I was bullied quite a lot because of this.

I was also scared of the book. Scared of it's 'power'. Surely if I were to invoke Adramelech he would rescue me from my tormentors, rending them asunder, consuming their souls and casting their broken bodies aside as ash, dead and cold. At this juncture, I feel that I should point out that I had a rather effusive imagination and was often referred to as 'having my head in the clouds'.

During one particularly painful bout of bullying, something snapped within me. I had been holding back for so long; not wanting to release the demonic presence of Adramelech on my foolish aggressors. Adramelech who would feed on their puny bodies, crunching their bones and sucking out the marrow whilst they still lived - screaming and dying horribly in hideous and prolonged agony ...

As I said, I was a dreamer.

I invoked the wrath of the Chancellor of Hell; crying forth the memorized passage for his summoning in a voice thick with spite. I spat the words out like chunks of flaming bile at the bullies surrounding me:

'Adramelech Chatsu remlisthu narek! Adramelech hismarad yonluth! Adramelech Chatsu remlisthu narek!'

An almost supernatural hush fell across the bullies who stood there, mouths agape. A dark cloud veiled the sun casting an eerie half-light across the playground. And then it happened. A hideous, screeching voice called out across the yard, chilling me to my very marrow:

'The lanky cunt's fucking lost it! Give him a fucking Chinese burn!'

And thus, I was not saved by a fiery demon, scything through the vicious bullies with blades of dark evil. I wasn't plucked from this mortal plane to sit at the side of Satan and while away the hours destroying the souls of countless sinners.

Instead I was given numerous Chinese burns across all the Chinese-burnable sections of my body and two very nasty atomic nipple-cripples.

Out of interest, I've just looked up Adramelech on Wikipedia. Apparently, he is also the 'Supervisor of Satan's wardrobe. Being generally depicted with a human torso and head, and the rest of the body of a mule (or sometimes as a peacock)'. Essentially the demonic version of Trinny or Susannah!? Fucking terrifying!

Adramelech. What a fucking useless cunt.
(Thu 20th Apr 2006, 12:57, More)

» Accidental animal cruelty

Gerbil terror
All this talk of gerbils has reminded me of a recent incident at a friend's house.
She had recently bought a gerbil and seeing as I have a pet rat I was full of confidence handling the little fluff ball as I felt that I had a natural affinity with rodents.

Anyway, this particular rodent was called Gabriel and was a sweet-looking, hyperactive white creature. She appeared to be enjoying herself immensely as she grappled her way up my jumper, into my hood, sniffed my ears etc all the while practically buzzing with pent-up nervous energy.

After a while she seemed to tire of this and settled down on the palm of my left hand which was resting on my lap. I thought that this was extremely cute and so stroked one of her small, white rodenty cheeks. Her eyes closed and she seemed to be working her jaw in a contended fashion. "Awww.." I thought to myself. "She's going to drift off to sleep. I am indeed the Gerbil Whisperer!".

No sooner had this triumphant thought crossed my mind than the gerbil - obviously sensing that my guard was down - sank it's evil, sharp teeth into the soft flesh of my index finger – right to the very bone.

I had to suppress the first 2 instincts that I had - the first being to squeeze the little fucker and the second to flick it across the room, but I had to think fast! I didn't really want to hurt the little morsel of evil but at the same time, blood was already starting to bead and drip from my injured digit in a rather alarming fashion (I hate the sight of blood).

I am not proud to announce that I did something disgusting. Something that my pain and alarm-riddled brain decided would be a great idea - the very best idea at removing this toothsome puffball from my flesh.

Ladies and gentlemen, I *licked* the gerbil in the face. I smothered it's startled little beady-eyed noggin with a generous amount of my rather copious, stale-fags-and-alcohol infused saliva.

The effect was remarkable! Count Gerbula released it's death-grip from my finger and started spluttering uncontrollably – fur matted with my spit (and some of my blood). Sensing my chance, I quickly scooped it up and stuffed it back in it's cage - ensuring that I had clipped the door securely shut.

Now I don't know if any of you has ever heard a gerbil growl but the noise emanating from the satanic little beast was unlike anything I had ever heard before outside of the film 'The Exorcist'. It was evidently enraged and started to try and attack me through the cage - charging the bars and biting them unrelentingly. I was actually quite disturbed at this and so nursing my injured finger, I quietly slunk out of the room and never mentioned the incident to anyone.

A few weeks later, my friend happily discovered that she was pregnant and asked me if I would like to take her gerbil off her hands as she didn't feel that she wanted it any more. She knew that I kept rodents and thought that I would be the ideal candidate.

Panic gripped my soul and I mumbled something about not having enough room for it. Secretly though, my heart was racing and the fear of the evidently possessed creature pipetted itself into my veins. I hastily made my escape and thanked my lucky stars that I managed to avoid the gerbil of evil being berthed at my house… watching, waiting and plotting it’s revenge…
(Wed 12th Dec 2007, 16:27, More)

» It's not me, it's the drugs talking

Pill-slags and Gladrags
In times past it was not uncommon for my acquaintances and I to dabble in various forms of substance abuse.
On one fine summer's evening I was enjoying some delightful MDMA action at the home of a particular friends parents.

All was going swimmingly well until I decided that the best way to wash down the latest tablet would be with half a pint of neat vodka. This was fine. I normally did this sort of thing. After receiving the customary looks of disdain at this vile behaviour I resumed pretending to be a Swedish lesbian with my friend Tom; a double act of sorts albeit without any actual physical interaction.

Turning to my mate Miff, I opened my mouth to speak to him and .... BANG .... Darkness.

Then.. all of a sudden - I'm coming round... people are shouting... no, one voice is shouting.. shouting *my* name.

'Matt! Matt! What the fuck are you doing? Jesus!'

Opening my eyes I discover myself to be lying in Miff's mother's bed. The uncomfortable, damp sensation I vaguely felt earlier has manifested itself as a rather fetching and yet soaking wet floral ladies dress which I appear to be wearing. Miff's mother's dress. All of my own clothes are nowhere to be seen. This includes my underwear.

To this very day I have no idea what happened to me. Apparently everyone had decided to migrate to another room in the house, misplacing me in the process. When they came to find me an undetermined amount of time later I was doing a good impression of a middle aged woman having a nice lie down after having been violently pissed on from head to toe by a rather high-capacity yak.

Didn't stop me from boshing another few and terrorising the local shop at 7am (still elegantly attired in sopping Sunday best).

(Thu 15th Dec 2005, 12:39, More)

» Losing Your Virginity

One of several.
It was one of several failed attempts to do the deed. Alcohol was my nemesis in those days ...

I was on holiday with several of the lads in Tenerife I believe at the tender age of only just 17. In the apartment above our were a group of 20 year old Mancunian lasses. Balcony flirting ensued and before we knew it we were in their apartment trying to look cool and probably failing miserably.

A pint of mixed spirits was passed around, including vodka, tequila and whisky. The idea was that maximum kudos and cool would be awarded to whosoever drank the foul brew. Unfortunately my inexperienced and malformed pride dictated that I would be the one!

After downing the aformentioned devils piss, one of the girls took a shine to me. I remember her skintight supergirl dress to this day.

She took me to one of the bedrooms in the apartment and whispered sexily to me "C'mon then love lets get down to it. Oh, and we're going out drinking afterwards so lets make it good eh?"

After some inexperienced fumbling involving easily four fingers (FOUR!) the sticky deed was fast approaching. I slipped on a condom and then .... the sickly brew of potent alcoholic spirits went straight to my cock who decided that now was a good time to do an impression of an understuffed chipolata.

At this point I recall stomping off to the bathroom and staring blearily at myself in the mirror. I pointed to my deflated appendage and exlaimed loudly "Come on you utter bastard! This is it!".

Unfortunately for me, the lazy worm had decided to sleep it off and didn't as much as twitch. It was crunch time.

I stomped back out of the bathroom and so as not to admit defeat started to go down on the now impatiently rampant Manc-whore.

Unfortunately approximately 3 minutes into this, another part of my body started to rebel against the surfeit of alcohol in my blood stream. This part was my stomach, which started to churn wildly.

As an upshot of this I sat bolt upright and (god knows why) exclaimed "Please may I go to the toilet!?".

Not waiting to hear a response, I dashed off and forgetting to either shut or lock the toilet door began to loudly vomit into the toilet bowl.

Little did I know that the evil whore had grabbed a video camera and was busy capturing close ups of my spasming arsehole as I was wretchedly vomiting.

I woke up the next day, naked in the apartment hallway to the spitefully gleeful cackling of my so-called friends (who had just been treated to a premiere of last nights filming) and a stinking hangover from hell.

The last I heard of it was that the footage was being shown around Manchester by the evil bitch whore as an example of the worst (near) shag experience she had ever had.

(Mon 7th Mar 2005, 22:15, More)

» Pubs

A tasty treat?
This takes place about 10 years ago in a seedy dive of a club in Bristol. I was sat with my girlfriend watching a man sat nearby who had clearly munched one too many tablets of the ecstasy variety.

To say that he was gurning would be an understatement. His face contorted from a strained rictus to pursed 'kiss-me-quick' lips to full deacon-esque belming. In the meantime, his thick eyebrows wrestled with one another like savage, twitching otters as he repeatedly wrung his sweaty hands.

His attention then fell on the brimming ashtray at his table and a glimmer of misplaced recognition crossed his battling features.
He scooped up a handful of the spent cigarette butts and squinted at them as his eyes crossed and uncrossed - trying to maintain focus. The ash fell through his fingers as he studied his prize until all of a sudden he lifted his hand in one quick movement and shoved the dog ends into his greedy, spittle-flecked cakehole.

After chewing them for a mere nanosecond, he projectile vomited noisily and copiously - covering a range of about three feet with soggy cigarette ends, bile and delightful carroty chunks. As this glorious mess was hitting the floor with thick, wet splattering sounds he leapt to his feet with his sanity seemingly restored. He took a deep, flourishing bow and then staggered backwards - clattering into the next table in a tangle of flailing limbs and curses.

It was at this juncture that my girlfriend and I decided that it would be a great time to decant ourselves to the dancefloor with a fair amount of haste.

In retrospect, I can only conclude that in his addled state, he thought that the cigarette-filled ashtray was in fact a bowl of scrumptious, salted peanuts. Wrongness has rarely been so definitively proved.

The very same night, a bedraggled young harridan propositioned in turn my friend, me and then my girlfriend to 'screw her in the bogs'.

A classy establishment it was not!
(Tue 10th Feb 2009, 11:31, More)
[read all their answers]