b3ta.com user wrigglesworth
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» Public Transport Trauma

Many years ago I used to do an utterly horrendous commute into London by Coach. This journey could take anything from one to three hours depending on how much the whole world was against me...

Anyways, one day after work I somehow ended up drinking Super-Tennants with a dirty tramp in a gutter somewhere, I have no idea how or why, suffice to say that he was my best friend at that particular time despite the fact he had wooden teeth. After many drinks and Pogues renditions I eventually had to bid my farewell and sauntered off to get the coach home.

Once seated, the coach rumbled away and immediately I needed a piss. Knowing full well that I was at the mere beginning of a roughly two hour hell ride before I could release the torrent of urine I could vividly picture swishing round my bloated bladder, the desire to urinate grew more powerful and desperate by the minute.
After what must have only been fifteen minutes or so, I was practically in tears, contemplating getting off the coach on the motorway and furiously crossing my legs. When I could take it no longer I had to take evasive action.

Glugging back the remainder of the Super-Tennants clutched in my sweaty palm, I carefully removed my thankfully tiny todger and placed the tip of the bobbys helmet on the can opening. Instantly a hot yellow stream jetted inside with a ferocious sound, awaking a few of my fellow passangers from their slumber. Relief was sweet but short lived as the can began to fill and I wasn't nearly finished - I felt like I hadn't pissed for years and could have quite easily filled a keg at this point.

By now my brain must have not been functioning properly as I desperately sought another solution.
And then it struck me. Even to this day I can barely believe it, but dear readers I must confess - I calmly undid my shirt and removed it, unbuckled my belt a notch, and then simply stuffed it down my trousers LIKE A MASSIVE FUCKING NAPPY!

I unleashed hell for what seems like hours, practically cumming with the sheer pleasure of it all until finally I was done and nothing more than a trickle warmly emenated from my limp and wrinkled babycock.
By now even through my drunken haze, I could smell piss. This hot coach began to heave with the unmistakable whiff of adult nappy juice and I HAD to hide my shame.

As I bent down to try and remove the makeshift Huggies from my tousers into my bag I accidently knocked over the can of Super Tennants urine which went happily spiralling down the coach glugging my pungent slash all the way down the aisle til it plopped down into the drivers cabin spewing liquid tramp odour much to his suprise.

I said nothing, but waddling off that stinking bus with a giant piss filled nappy down my strides avoiding the glares and mutterings from everyone on board is an image that will stay with me forever.

I get the train now.
(Thu 29th May 2008, 17:30, More)

» We have to talk

Guinness - My Arse !
One awful morning after consuming 18 pints of delicious Guinness, I was lying in bed with my girlfriend idley stroking the rigid, diabolcal quiver of my member.
She soon got out of bed and went to the bathroom, and I seized the moment of solitude to rid myself of the titanic fart i could feel brewing in my guts.
I arched my back, squeezed, and immediately recoiled in horror as 18 pints of dark black liquid faeces erupted from my poor unsuspecting sphincter all over my thighs and bedsheets.

Quickly jumping out of bed, tearing up the richly stained sheets and wiping myself 'clean', I just managed to ball up the evidence and pull the duvet over the bare mattress before she came back in the room.

I stuffed the Guinnessy shit-sheets behind an amplifier and showered away the shame.

Anyway....we had to go somewhere pretty smartish so thought I would take care of the accidental dirty protest when we got back.

Upon our return however, We were greeted by the sight of my dear old mum clutching a bucket full of cleaning products, with tears in her eyes.

"We have to talk..." she said

I assure you, Vanish Stain Sticks do NOT work.
(Fri 20th Apr 2007, 13:40, More)

» Housemates from hell

Allotment shame
Me and my (Ex) Flatmate once played an eighteen month version of 'who can survive with no money the longest'
After both quitting our jobs on the same day and stocking up on Ketchup and Monster Munch, the game was on.
About a year flew by in a haze of cheap strong cider, cheap strong drugs & cheap strong women, posessions were sold, the rent remained unpaid and we slowly degenerated into beasts, squabbling over raw pasta shells and handouts.
Beards were grown, Dole money was scoffed at and we rarely ventured outside. A new language developed, as did several new species of fungi on the walls.
We would have the TV and stereo blaring continuously and laugh at the neighbour banging on our paper thin walls.

I knew the game was over, eighteen months later when we found ourselves scrabbling around on our hands and knees in the local allotments stealing onions and potatoes at midnight. We went home and cooked a lovely big pot of onion and potatoe hot water stew.
It was fucking disgusting.
Days later two notices of 'Accelerated Reposession' plopped though the letterbox.
We opened them after a few weeks and left with tears in our eyes.

Worst flatmate ? - It was a draw
(Thu 12th Apr 2007, 11:02, More)

» Mistaken Identity

take that Shane !
Some years ago I was sitting in Mcd*nalds with my friend and his girlfriend 'enjoying' a Big Mac meal (Fillet 'O' Fish for the lady…) and chatting leisurely about Quantum Physics and the like.
Suddenly from behind me a shrill voice exclaimed the immortal words: "Take That Shane!",
and proceeded to tip an extra large bucket of Fanta over my head.

Now my name's not Shane...

As the ice dripped slowly down my spine and sticky orange fizz beaded from my hair into my food, I turned around to face a triumphant looking 13 year old girl and her spotty accomplice chortling at me.

"What in the name of Hamburgler are you playing at?" I politely enquired*

As she realised her blunder, and that I was not in fact "Shane" her face contorted into some awful little piggy fizgog and she replied:

"Fuck off"

Yes dear readers, that was her apology.
I must admit I am slightly ashamed of running out in the street after the little tykes with two large Sprites and launching them (unsuccessfully) at them in front of several horrified shoppers.

Way I see it, this Shane character owes me BIG TIME.

*Words to that effect, only louder, more sweary and less burger franchise orientated.

Length? - Supersize...
(Thu 31st May 2007, 16:31, More)

» Stupid Dares

Curry Dare
I once ordered the hottest vindaloo known to man and to be honest, struggled to get the bubbling bowl of viscous fire juice down.
I instead dared my drunken pal £100 if he could down the lot in one, which he gladly accepted.

Now I thought there was no way he would be able to do it as this stuff was like sulphuric acid and would do a serious mischief to the guts if consumed...
He shook my hand, tilted back the balti dish and expertly downed about a pint of nuclear cuisine - straight.
We watched amazed at this feat, as he calmly insisted after that it was hardly hot at all (baring in mind a drop on the end of your finger could peel skin).

I then had to inform him that I had no £100, and had no intention of ever paying up.

Later that night he shat the bed about 6 times.
(Thu 1st Nov 2007, 12:53, More)
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