b3ta.com user venezuelan beaver cheese
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I'm here, I'm queer, I really need a beer...

40ish (edit: now 49! woo and yay indeed) former Manchester lad now living in the Colonies (Norfolk, Virginia to be more precise) with an American bloke who is neither fat nor stupid. Known to enjoy underwater basket weaving, medieval macramé and annoying small-mouth bass on a daily basis.

Ooh...and wanking like a clockwork monkey to kitten porn whenever the current Mr. Cheese is elsewhere engaged.

I AM THE PARISIAN SEDUCTRESS! Which French Stereotype Are You?

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Rampaging after a coke-fueled Twitter frenzy, herding two hardened battle llamas, cometh Venezuelan Beaver Cheese! And he gives a bloodthirsty scream:

"Say, does anyone know how to Madison?"

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Caught!

Still paying the therapy bills
Like most lads I discovered the joys of rubbing one off like a clockwork monkey when I was at the tender age of 12 or so. I had thought that my bishop-punishing, chicken-choking act of depravity was my dirty little secret until my father, mischievous grin on his face, nailed me with this little gem:

"Nathaniel could you stop wanking into your socks? It upsets your Mum on laundry day".

Made me stop for a whole week that did.
(Sat 5th Jun 2010, 22:21, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

My sodding neighbour Ty...
I shall call him Tyler for that is well and truly his name. Ty was a 20-something US Army wanker that lived 3 doors down from me. A reasonably attractive lad in a I've-had-a-few-pints-why-the-fuck-not sort of way, a knockout but jejune girlfriend, a very hairy body (this becomes important later on) and a world class "Betty Ford Center calling. The Chevy Chase Suite is ready for you dear" drinking problem. Up until that fateful day Ty's antics were, for the most part, harmless. Unfortunately this was to change...

On the day in question Chris (the current Mr. Cheese) and I had just finished a bit of count the legs and divide by two and as I lay there sucking on a fag* I heard a tremendous crash with an accompanying glass shatter chorus coming from the front room. At this point I should mention that we live in a rather posh neighbourhood and Godzilla eats Tokyo sound effects are not a common occurrence. It was Ty. Attacking his flatmates lorry with a large hunk of fallen tree branch. Stark, fucking naked. And drunk as a bishop. At 2 PM. In front of a park. With kids watching. And their horrified mothers.

After throwing on something suitable for the occasion (i.e. clothing) I went outside to convince the twat that being visibly drunk and most visibly starkers was not in his best interests. No matter, by this time Tyler had decided to have a bit of a liedown on the grass about 1 foot from the main road where he proceeded to immediately pass out. And piss on himself. I glanced across the street and saw about 20 people screaming into their cell phones, obviously alerting Norfolk's Finest to the pubic hair, penis and piss buffet spread out before them. As I headed back inside, convinced the situation was well and truly in hand, I heard a whimper not unlike that of a three year old who just sat on the Christmas kitten coming from Chris. Tyler had rolled over exposing his Robin Williams caliber hairy arse for the entire world to see.

"Cheese? Oh Christ on a bike, get a sheet. One you don't like..."

The dirty cunt had shat on himself in the recent past...

...and. let. it. dry.

Rivers of dried ass pudding had coated the back of his legs down to his knees, forming little modern art poo and pubes stalactites. This was too much, even for me. Norfolk PD showed up about 2 minutes later and they were most definitely not amused. Neither was the EMS team that by now were dressed in full bio-hazard kit and had to quite literally pour the drunken sod into the back of their vehicle.

Tyler no longer lives here.

Length? Not much from where I was standing. A bit lacking in the girth department as well.

*not Chris. A Kool menthol.

(Sun 31st May 2009, 21:55, More)

» Doctors, Nurses, Dentists and Hospitals

Unqualified Doctors, etc
I've been happily sober for 14 years now (long story for another QOTW) and one of the responsibilities of said sobriety is helping others less fortunate (i.e. ripped to the tits) get some help. Cue my mate Steve calling me at the wee hours to join him in helping another mate who had *badly* fallen off the wagon.

Seems Jeff had been on a screaming bender for 3 weeks, consuming up to 2 litres of Bacardi 151 a day and now was trying to sober up on his own. Not a good idea as a grand-mal seizure is a real possibility at this stage. We decided to drive him ourselves to the ER (A&E) of our choice as the local paramedics would only take him to closest facility. Bad choice. We arrived 20 minutes later with our barely coherent mate (who twice spewed in my car) unable to sign himself in due to the early onset of the DT's. Two hours (and much pleading with the nursing staff for help) later we final manage to speak to a doctor who had the worst "it's his fault and I don't give a rats arse" attitude I've ever encountered. His advice? Take him home and let him sleep it off. No amount of pleading/yelling/threatening would make him or the staff change their minds.

We bundled him up (now at this point seriously off his gourd with the shakes and hallucinations) and, not waiting for the disinterested staff to properly discharge him, took him to a second ER about 30 minutes away. The change could not have been more different. Jeff was immediately put on the proper anti-seizure medications (Ativan) and was promptly admitted to the hospital for 4 days. The admitting MD was astonished at Jeff's treatment at the first hospital, saying that "not all doctors are trained in the handling of acute alcohol withdrawal". WTF?

Wanker. Had we followed the first doc's advice and taken him home the poor sod would have either had a seizure or continued to drink himself into a coma.
(Thu 11th Mar 2010, 14:17, More)

» Mums

Angel of Mercy
Quick story here. My apologies in advance for the lack of chuckles.

My Mum is quite literately terrified of blood of any kind so growing up as a rambunctious (and very clumsy) sproglette I learned at an early age not weep red coloured goo where Mum could see lest I end up picking her off the floor (not an easy task as she is not a small woman by any stretch).

On one fine summer day my brother and I were playing doubles tennis when, after doing my famous Andre Agassi after Thalidomide act, I managed to trip, fall and stumble my way into said brother's backhand, causing an enormous gash above my left eye. Blood was pouring down my face, blinding me in one eye and causing my brother to turn white as sheet and start gagging. As we as a family had just recently move to the US and knew next to nobody we were forced to call Mum, knowing her reaction was not going to be pleasant. 5 minutes later after a squeal of red-hot brakes and tyre smoke came Mum. Running, cloth and God's own bottle of peroxide in hand, hair net and housecoat flapping for all and sundry to see. Not a pleasant sight to anyone but me. Somehow she managed to clean me up enough so I could see then quite literally carried her 15 stone son to the car and steer with her knees whilst clamping a hand over a weeping and woozy child and shifting with the other, all time while I was pouring blood over me, her and the car. To this day I have never figured out how she did it. Got to spend the night in A&E due to a magnificent concussion and 17 stitches.

She waited until the Docs had stitched me up before passing out cold on the A&E floor.

Thanks Mum.
(Thu 18th Feb 2010, 2:10, More)