b3ta.com user KeenBean
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for KeenBean:
Profile Info:


Recent front page messages:

Yay :)

(Thu 19th Feb 2009, 20:01, More)

Best answers to questions:

» What was I thinking?

When I was a wee lass
The head of my bed was against the radiator. It was in an old house and the central heating would regularly erupt with various gurgling, rawr-ing and plopping noises. These were somewhat frightening to a sensitive small child such as I.

My mum had just put me to bed and I asked her what the scary radiator monster was.

"It's Willy," She responded. She had her hand on a book about the infamous captive killer whale.

From then on, anything scary or intimidating was a 'willy.' My parents drew much amusement from this misunderstanding and encouraged my usage of the word in this sense.

Backfired though. I was in a shop with my dad, queueing to buy something tasty. He was jangling his keys in his pocket as men do. Enthralled by the noise, I got the attention of the old lady in front of me, pointed to my father's pocket and declared: "There's willies in there!"

We left the shop very quickly after that.
(Mon 27th Sep 2010, 19:26, More)

» Call Centres

phonetic alphabet...
I recently had to move house and you know what that means: lots of call centre phoning!

So first stop was the bank account and everything was going swimmingly, until I reached the postcode.
Me: "Yes: 0-F-Y - that's zero, foxtrot, wankee - oh no - I mean wankee, no Yankee!!" I think the call centre lady fell off her seat.
Try it, it's actually quite tricky to say when you only have the letters in front of you.

Whats worse is the more I worried about it the more I said 'wankee' - to at least 3 more call centres. Argh, the shame.
(Sun 6th Sep 2009, 10:08, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

I was the grand old age of 22,
Just coming to the end of my MA and slogging through 15-hour days, seven-day weeks on my dissertation.

However, such qualifications do not come cheap and I’d stumped-up my life savings and holiday earnings to cover it. ‘Cos edukashun is valubul, innit? In the final month I’d hit the bottom of my overdraft, had numerous rent and bills due, no savings, no chance of claiming benefit (full-time students can’t), no job and the ‘rental bank was currently sorting out my recently-divorced, single-mum sister.


I needed a hundred squid and fast.
Salvation came in the form of an internet “dating” site for well-educated young ladies such as my esteemed self. The site would offer the charming company and intelligent conversation of a young man or woman at dinner in return for a fee (decided by said man or woman). Naturally this would attract lots of wealthy older men looking for some hot university totty that they could quite innocently take to dinner. Dinner only, got it? I signed up straight away and banged on a price of £80 for a meal with my incredible banter and barely visible cleavage, stuck a few flattering photos up and waited.

Hurrah, joy as I received the message that ‘bob’ has asked me out on a date! I received his details and Googled him instantly. 36, *Whereversian and with assets £250 million, ranked Xth richest man in Whereverland. £250 million??!! Holy mother of feck, yes! He messaged me; inviting me to his apartment, a prestigious address on Park Lane, no less (not actually on a Monopoly board – the real Park Lane). I knew his wealth was legit but was wary; this was supposed to be a dinner date with lots of people around in case my lady bits were unduly fondled. Oh, but I needed the cash and he was loaded. I put on my tottery heels, tight black dress and went anyway thinking, “I’m from the North and no one’s gonna mess with this biatch.”

How naive I was.

The apartment porters were immediately suspicious when I turned up. I could hear their thoughts screaming, ”PROSSIEEEEEEE! Dirty, clap-infested prossie to visit our pervert tenant.” I said I was a friend of Mr Rich and they were content to allow me into the plush lift. I ascended to his flat, knocked on the door and was greeted by an overweight, spotty and greasy (if well-dressed) man. Real age: 36; chronological age: 67. But then he did go on a dating site to pay for my company so fair dos.

The apartment was hideous. Everything rich people buy when they have lots of money and no Keenbean to tell them how to spend it. He plopped £100 into my bag straight off. You can predict what happened next. Kisses exchanged for information, bragging about wealth, eating sweets and getting naked. Did I mention he was like a big kid? Bags of Haribo everywhere. Maybe that was for me, being young and impressionable and all.

Anyway, long story short I didn’t do the full works but acted as ‘inspiration’ for his wank.

I refused to do any bishop-bashing so basically I lay there naked while he did the business himself. Turns out Whereversians have differently-shaped cocks from the Caucasian male to which I had become accustomed. Didn’t expect that.

Ms Keenbean BA, MA, Scholar, Prostitute.


I left at 5am, as soon as the tube started up again and travelled home with the numerous other leftover drunks.

I recently Googled this guy and he’s now some fantastic philanthropist so he won’t be joining me in hell...unless I tell the minions on my shoulder...bwahahahahahahaaaa.

The website’s still there and, no, I’m not on it any more.

Length? One night of degradation, 6” and possibly eternity in hell. Poobum.

*Why am I protecting his identity?
(Tue 16th Dec 2008, 19:58, More)

» Irrational Hatred

Women who pretend to be thickoes.
This really fucks me right off.

They're the kind of women who have the brains to read, write, add-up and park a car but seem to spend their meaningless, thrush-itchings of lives protesting utter fuck-witted-ness. Why don't you all twat off and crap on someone else's gender?

You know who you are. You're the girl who claimed you didn't know what 'a Tony Blair' was, or why Eastenders was bollocks, or how there had to be a boy dog and a girl dog to make baby dogs, or how something other than the relationship your aunt has with gelatin could be interesting, or why no one could give a feral cat's midnight shite about the colour of your nails today, or that spending your life chatting loudly in a feigned lahndan accent on the train is far from cool.
I know you can get Mr Idiot Slave Lackey Jockey to put up that shelf for you, but really, get off your gargantuan arse and try doing it yourself. Stop making the rest of us look pathetic.

You make me want to grow a cock so I can thwack you in the face with it. You have some fucking brains in there. Use them!

*feminises off into milly-tant huff*
irrational because I frequently pretend to be too pathetic to lift things... and in reality I couldn't give a flying tampon about my gender
(Tue 5th Apr 2011, 19:19, More)

» Ouch!

Ice skating is evil
Moaning about pain, you say?

*clears throat

Many moons ago, when I was but a little bean, I went ice skating with a bunch of mates. Not being very proficient at this sport I spent most of the evening pootling about at low speed, hanging onto the rink walls.

After an hour or so I felt more confident and ventured farther towards the middle where the faster people were. One of my friends was an expert and could do it *backwards* so I spent a few seconds contemplating their amazing skills before ***smack. Something hit me with tremendous speed and force, causing me to hit the rock-hard ice like a fish slapping Michael Palin's face.

It was a woman travelling at twice the speed of sound. Unfortunately we both landed on my left arm. I wasn't really aware of the pain at first, I just knew that it ought to hurt and dutifully commenced crying my eyes out. Some nice, helpful members of the public crowded round and tried to help me up by pulling on said arm. I told them to sodding well release me whilst screaming a bit more.

Then a rink hand fought his way through the throng, hauled me up by grabbing me under the arms and dragged me back to the changing rooms.
By this point I'd calmed down a bit and the tears had stopped. Arm was throbbing a little. The rink hand asked me to move my fingers and flex my arm, movements which I performed easily. "Ah, 'tis but a sprain," He cried, "No ambulance for you, young lady!"

I sat there and moaned for a bit longer, before sulkily pleading for a taxi to take me to the hospital. It was now hurting a bit more. The doctor who assessed me in A&E was hot. But he said I'd probably broken my arm a bit so tempting him with a bit of underage minge was probably off the cards.

Arm was x-ray'd and a special ortho man came to tell me all about wrists, 'cos that bit was broken. I had my colles fracture taped up and was booked in to have it manipulated back into place under anaesthetic in a couple of days.

What they didn't notice was that my elbow was also mashed to fuck. So I sat there, elbow resting on table, whilst they wrapped up the handy-wristy bit.

The next two days were agony trying to sleep. I flexed and unflexed my elbow, trying to get my arm in a comfortable position. I took many ibuprofen. Okay for a headache but they don't do much for a broken arm.

When I returned to the hospital I asked kindly if they wouldn't mind re-checking the x-ray to see if my elbow was ok. The doctor held it up to the window, "Nah it's fine." I moaned a bit more about the pain and he walked up to the light box with some frustration at his whingey patient. "Oh dear, you have broken it. Whoops!"

So they put a bit more plaster on it and a few hours later I was put under for some operation-y goodness. I came out with several pins in my elbow and a seven inch scar along my arm. Apparently moving around a broken elbow for two days doesn't do much good.

Length? 2 days of unmedicated ouch, 6 weeks of 10-tonne-backslab plastercast and 5 months of physio :)
(Wed 4th Aug 2010, 16:05, More)
[read all their answers]