b3ta.com user Frank Snow
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» 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.


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)


From Bad to Worse.
I said goodbye and put down the phone. There was nothing they could do, she said. He was still alive when they got to the vet but my wife said he took one look at the little guy and his expression changed and she just knew. Apparently the woman in the car had been completely distraught. Her voice broke as she told me how she had been forced to comfort the woman who had killed her beloved pet.

Normally this would be the point where I got stuck into a drink but I had been worried about my intake lately. Too many too often, feeling like I "needed" it to cope. I felt like I was standing on a knife's edge.

Ah, fuck it. I walked down the street to the pub. I got as far as getting the pint in my hand. I stared at it for about a minute before handing it back. I didn't want this. I didn't want to go this way. Anyway, I still had that important meeting to go. Had I really sunk so low as to turn up half-cut to a meeting with the top brass? I turned to leave.

"Oi, are you going to pay for this or what?" I turned back around. "Oh, sorry, I... I forgot," I stammered as I produced a crumpled fiver. "Fucking muppet," muttered the barman as he made change that later turned out to be a whole pound short. I gritted my teeth and walked to the door. "You want to watch yourself, you snotty bastard. Attitude like that get you a proper kicking, like as not."

The meeting was already under-way when I got in, dizzy with grief and confusion. "12 minutes late, young man," said my manager with a smug look on his face. It only got worse from there. This was meant to be my big chance but that officious little turd had his hooks in them and he wasted no opportunity in undermining me at every turn, taking credit for all of my hard work, talking over me when I attempted to stick up for myself and generally making me look a complete useless tit in front of the big bosses. But I tried to man up, to maintain a professional veneer on top of the boiling storm of emotions.

The impressed looks on their faces as this preening twat told lie after lie was almost unbearable. I didn't know whether to cry or scream. Something caught my attention and I started listening again. I realised he was taking total credit for the web application project that had been my baby for the last eight months. I had designed and developed it all by myself; it would drastically increase productivity, it was the thing that was going to get me noticed, and here he was claiming all the glory and basically writing me out of history.

"For fuck's sake, Gerry, is there no low to which you will not sink? You malodorous cunt."

My cheeks burned with regret as I realised what I had done. Several of the bosses began to sigh and tut. Gerry prodded me viciously in the chest. "Young man, I think you and I need to step outside and discuss your future with this company."

The final straw broke. My lip trembled and the room began to blur. I began to cry, deep bubbling sobs. As the tears hit my cheeks I felt my bladder relax and felt the stream of hot wee begin its journey down my trousers. My eyes were crying and my penis was crying along with my eyes. "I want my mummy!" I blubbered as my liquid shame began to pool in my shoes. My sobbing continued, interrupted only by the occasional loud fart as I lost total control of my body. Suddenly a kindly voice cut across the pissy weep-show.

"It will be okay. You will be okay." The CEO got out of his chair and walked over to me. "Just remember that I love you," he told me before kissing me tenderly on the lips. "Who ARE you?" I asked him. "You know very well," he said.

I stared in disbelief as he pulled his face off, which turned out to be mask instead of a face and underneath it was another face, the face of a man who I knew's face. It was my old headmaster, Mr. Wilson! "I have wanted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you," he said. My wee of shame became a wee of joy. "Take me!" I wept, and we made sweet, sweet love, right there on top of Gerry's briefcase.

I woke up at that point, the hot humiliation of a wet dream burning a hole in my bicycle shorts. I looked around me, uncomfortably aware that I had almost certainly just yelled "NOB ME IN THE GOB!" at the top of my voice.

It took all my emotional strength to keep it together when the vicar informed me that I would not be welcome at next Sunday's service.
(Mon 5th Aug 2013, 12:14, 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.


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)

» Social Media Meltdowns

Your Typical Internet Showdown
So a few years back I got into it with some jerk on Facebook. Puffed up little hard-man type, thought he was a player because he owned a BMW. Fuck knows why I even had him on my feed but there you go. He only ever did two things anyway: post pictures of himself posing next to that fucking car, or creep over women. Like, the second some girl changes her profile pic, he's there with some skeevy comment. He managed to do this without pissing off absolutely everyone beacause he knew how to toe the line between clumsy and enthusiastic and genuinely unpleasant.

Anyway, he'd been trying my patience for a while, when all of a sudden he started up on my wife. I didn't even know they were Facebook friends, but suddenly he's replying to her status updates with shit like "girl u so hot" and "babe u need a real man in ur life xoxoxo". I snapped and unloaded on him. Told him what I really thought, that he was a jumped up twat, a foolish little child-man and that having that fucking stupid car was no substitute for having a dick the size of a mouse turd. And get this, dickbrain gets all shitty with me, says he knows where I live and maybe he'll come round and teach me lesson, crap like that. He starts talking shit about my family and that's where I lost my sense of humour. No-one fucking threatens my family.

So I goaded him a bit further, got his blood running hot, and tricked him into giving me his address, on the basis that I would be round later that day for a good beating. I admit I said a few embarrasing things, I guess you could call it a meltdown, in deference to the topic, but that was all part of my plan. Obviously I didn't go. I'm not some fucking animal. I had a plan. I waited a little over a month, until I figured his tiny brain had forgotten the whole arrangement, then I packed some rope and my trusty hunting knife into my backpack and walked the 4 miles or so to his house, under cover of darkness.

When I got there, his car was in the driveway. I am man enough to admit it looked pretty impressive in real life. It looked strong, sleek and powerful. I eyed up the tyres as I opened my bag and brushed my fingers gently over the handle of my knife. My heart was pounding. I set my resolve in steel. It was now or never. I let out a ragged breath.

"Showtime," I thought to myself as I pulled my trousers down and thrust my engorged penis deep into the car's exhaust pipe. The metal and soot felt really good against my throbbing bellend as I shuddered and moaned, thrusting my triumphant manhood in and out of this beautiful machine. All of a sudden the door burst open and the jerkwad himself appeared at the door, a look of utter bewilderment on his face.

"What the fuck are you doing to my Beamer!?" he roared as I made sweet, sweet love to the car. "Your Beamer's name is Uncle Daddy and I'm fucking him up the back passage!!!" I screamed as I climaxed convulsively, overwhelmed by the sexual ecstasy of the greatest orgasm of my entire life. As he looked on in mute horror, I collapsed onto his driveway, utterly spent and satisfied.

And then I shat myself.
(Sat 22nd Jun 2013, 18:43, More)
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