b3ta.com user Bob the Builder
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» LOL Bigots

I come here for the benefits
I worked with a guy who was half Iraqi. His name is Wahab, but he goes by the name of Dave. He came to the UK as a teenager, became an officer in the merchant navy, and when I met him he was working in IT. One day he let on that he had been on some kind of black ops thing in Iraq with the Gurkhas, but he didn't make a big deal out of it.

In short, a good bloke.

He lives in a small town in East Yorkshire.

He told me he was in the pub with a number of friends in said town, when some racist bloke came up to him and said "What are you doing in a small town in East Yorkshire?"
Dave put on his worst accent, and said "Well, I just come over from Calais. I come here for the benefits, you know?"
Racist bloke gets angrier.
"I only been here one week... and they give me council house."
Racist bloke gets even angrier.
"Is big house! Is good, because next month my four wives and fifteen children come."
Racist bloke explodes. Dave's friends all laugh at him.
(Sun 24th Feb 2013, 5:28, More)

» I Hurt My Rude Bits, Again

No pain involved...
But it is about my gonads.

So, aged sixteen, my dad was going on and on to me about whether I could pull my foreskin back. One of his ancestors had died of knob rot because he was too embarrassed to tell anyone, and my dad also had loads of problems with his cock, so I suppose it was on his mind. (You've heard of athlete's foot - well, for years my dad had athlete's cock. I think he had toadstools growing out of the end of it.)


So one day I tried to pull said foreskin back. It was really tight, but I managed it. By this time, the end of my cock was the size of a golf ball, the rest had the diameter of a frankfurter and the end was getting purple. Try as I might, I couldn't get it back.

The following day, I went to the doctor. He tugged at my cock for ages, and gave up. He phoned the hospital, and if I remember correctly, got me in the following day. (This obviously wasn't the UK, otherwise I'd still be on an NHS waiting list to get onto the waiting list.)

So I went to the hospital. The specialist was an old bloke. He asked me to drop my trousers and pants. After taking one look, he invited me across the corridor to another room. Here I had to lie on a table thing. This is where it gets surreal. There were two (female) nurses present. I swear one was chewing gum, the other was sucking on a lollipop. The old doc tugged like mad at my teenage love truncheon. One nurse removed the lolly from her mouth, and said "Do you want any lubricant?" "Nah" said the doc, still yanking on my pork sword. Honestly, it was like a Channel 4 sitcom. In the end he succeeded - I can't remember whether there was a comedy "plop" noise or not.

He looked down and said "Hmm... that'll have to come off." For a split second, I thought he meant to amputate my willy.
That proved not to be the case, and the rest of the story is pretty boring.
(Tue 12th Mar 2013, 19:49, More)

» Messing With Their Head

You need a little knowledge of electronics to get this one.

My uncle used to work at Plessey. The jokers there would get liquorice comfits, and paint coloured bands round them. Then they'd gently drill a hole in each end, and insert a wire, then very gently solder them into a circuit board.
(Sun 19th Apr 2015, 21:44, More)

» Council Cunts

Hire a traffic warden
A couple of years ago, I was working for a certain police force. This was back in the days when the traffic wardens were part of the police, before they were privatised and the franchise was given to Lowest Bidder plc.

One day, I was in the office of the Chief Traffic Warden, and this was the tale he told.

A Well Known Supermarket applied for planning permission to extend one of their (three) stores. The city council granted permission, but because the extension was likely to result in more traffic, they imposed a condition which said the Well Known Supermarket (I won't name them, but it rhymes with Mazda) had to pay £10,000 (I think) towards traffic improvements.
So the extension gets built, and this things ends up on the desk of the Chief Traffic Warden, who thinks WTF??? He rings up the supermarket, and the conversation goes like this:

Chief TW: It says here that I'm supposed to provide you with ten grand's worth of services, but all I can actually do is send round a traffic warden, and he won't be able to do anything. Why don’t we just forget about it?

Man from Mazda: Oh, we can't do that, because of the planning permission. Tell you what, why don't you invoice us for ten grand for doing nothing, and we'll pay it.

Chief TW: Are you sure?

Man from Mazda: Yeah, that's what we make in twenty minutes on a Sunday anyway. Don't worry about it.

So the Chief TW goes off to the Head of Finance at the police, and says "Is it okay if we send Mazda a bill for £10000 for doing fuck all?" and she says "No."

So then the Chief TW has to send a traffic warden up to Mazda until they've had ten grands' worth of his services at £25/hour + VAT. When the guy gets there, he can either wander round the car park, looking for out of date tax discs, or sit in Mazda's canteen, drinking tea.
(Fri 27th Jul 2007, 22:21, More)

» Funny Stories

I shat myself
We're doing poo stories, yeah?

One day at work, instead of going to the canteen, I went down the road and got an ebola burger and a can of pop. Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my desk, but I felt a rumbling and my tail was twitching.

I stood up. Now I couldn't possibly crap in bog No. 1, so I had to trot over the corridor to the other one. Would I make it in time? I walked awkwardly past bog No. 2, my pace quickening. Some fool was blocking the door in front of me. Hurry up! Overtake him, across the corridor, into bog No. 3, I was practically sprinting at this point.

Once through both doors, my hands were already on my belt. Luckily a cubicle was free. I dashed in, spun round, and yanked my trousers and pants down in one go, unhindered by my belt.

Then "shit happened" as they say. I wasn't even seated at this point.

It went everywhere. In the bog, on the bog, up the wall, across the floor. My pants were a write-off.

Needless to say, the bog roll was those stupid flimsy sheets rather than the real deal you have at home. Wipe wipe, in the bog, lid down, flush. Repeat. At this rate I reckoned I could kind of clean the place up in a couple of hours.

Then the cleaner stuck her head round the outer door and asked whether anyone was in there. I confirmed there was. Damn! I couldn't ask her to come back at 3pm. Now she was waiting outside the door, and she'd know I was the dirty bastard who'd soiled the place.

What was I supposed to do with my pants? I couldn't stick them in my pocket, they were too far gone for that.

I gave up, and chucked them in the corner.

I legged it. That poor woman. I never wore that shirt or tie again in the hope she wouldn't recognise me.

The following day I noticed there was shit on my ID badge.
(Mon 22nd Jun 2015, 22:17, More)
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