b3ta.com user atomboy
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I'm half-french, half-arsed and usually half-cut.
I'm not really an atom, or a boy for that matter (i'm far too old to call myself that without at least a twinge of shame and regret).
This is mictoboy's wonderful tiny drawing of me and my missus:
and here's some pictures of someone that I apparently look just like (according to the gay male population of Paris, at any rate)

Annoyingly, the pictures below will be redexing for you, 'cos tripod are bastards. however, when i get my lazy arse in gear, i'll sort out my proper webspace with blueyonder and then everything will be dandy again.

Here's the first animation i ever made, i'm as proud of it as a squirrel would be with an extra big haul of nuts...

And this was my first (and thus far only) FP (when I was known as toxic tom, and before i got fed up with people saying they hadn't seen me since i fell into the radioactive waste and so changed my name).

Now I know what you're thinking (that the "Recent front page messages: none" below doesn't lie), but it was a joint effort between myself and Donster for the real-life photoshopping comp, and i couldn't get onto my server at work, so he hosted and posted, but i'm still claiming it as a moral FP.

If for some bizarre reason you feel strangely compelled to contact me, 4rthur me

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Best answers to questions:

» Scars with history

ooh, goody, I'm a mess of scar tissue, me
On my forehead, just on the hairline (well, slightly below it now, but that's the ravages of time for you), smack in the centre*, is a nice little scar that still, nearly a quarter of a century after the injury that caused it, manages to make me look like I'm turning into a Klingon whenever I'm overly angry or out of puff.
* [edit] it's in the same place and looks very similar to Mr Logic's one about 15 or so posts down

On the edge of the woods just behind my house, one of our ever-so public spirited neighbours had dumped a load of smashed up hard old lino. This stuff was like Bakelite, and there were large jagged slivers of it, which could easily do you a mischief.

My friend Martin and I, being only 7 years old at the time, thought this was great and decided to play a game we called "Flying Daggers". It involved flinging the larger slivers (rough isoceles triangles, 6-8 inches long and 2-3 inches wide at the base) at each other from a distance of only a few metres. The aim of the game was to catch one of these spinning emissaries of bloodied doom.

I did.

Right in my forehead.

I would've carried on playing, too, but the blood trickling into my eyes made it hard to see.

my second favourite scar came as a result of being threatened with a gun:
It was dusk in the summer of 1988. I was playing out the front with some friends and, for some reason, one of them ran inside to tell his dad on us. The dad came out and, jokingly, threatened to get his air rifle out and shoot us.

Naturally I legged it indoors. Or I would've done, had the grass not been so damp. I slipped on our front lawn and landed with my knee at the exact point where concrete meets grass, splitting the patella (that's the knee cap, for those of you who don't watch Casualty) in twain. A gaping gash bisecting my knee, with the innards plain for all to see. I howled in agony and my parents came rushing out. My dad scooped me up and carried me to the car, then they rushed me to the General Hospital, which had a casualty unit that knew me well (I'd been in and out with various injuries frequently over the previous 10 years or so). Apparently I was rather green at this point (well, not my lower left leg, which was covered in claret, but you get my drift) and hyperventilating like nobody's business, so they stuck me in a wheelchair and rushed me through, despite the waiting room being full of rugby players and drunkards in various shades of blood red.

The nurse who saw to me had the sympathetic bedside manner of Dr Josef Mengele and, amongst other bizarre control methods, threatened to make me breathe into a paper bag if I didn't stop hyperventilating. She stuck a very big hypodermic needle into the bloodied chasm that had been my kneecap and was about to inject it with anaesthetic when there was a loud crash from the other half of the 'dirty theatre' (as the unsterile casualty operating theatre is known). Turns out some bloke had fainted watching his son have his ear sewn back on (he'd cut it off with a rusty tin lid somehow, possibly in a Picasso-inspired act of whore lust, I'll never know). She propmptly left me, bloody big needle in my knee 'nall, and went over to give succour to this spineless wimp. Not only succour, mind, but my wheelchair, too. The cow.
Anyway, she eventually came back, stitched me up good and proper, and sent me on my way.
I had to spend the remaining 3 weeks of the summer sat on my arse, changing the angle of my knee from straight to bent once a day so it didn't get too stiff, while all my mates were having races round the block, long-jumping and throwing ersatz javelins made from saplings, inspired by the olympics of that same summer.
I felt like Jimmy Stewart in rear window (not that I knew it at the time, taut psychological dramas not being a staple of the young atomboy's film diet) and, to a lesser extent, Bart in the Simpsons' spoof of the same (not that It'd been made at the time, obviously).

To this day I have a broad, raised scar about 4 inches long across it and a kneecap so knobbly that I'd be a shoo-in at any 1950's Butlins knobbly knees competition.
(Fri 4th Feb 2005, 13:56, More)

» Urban Legends

men lactating
The phenomenon of non-puerperal lactaction (lactating outside of breast feeding, regardless of gender) is called galactorrhoea. It's a recognised medical condition.
It is a fairly frequent side-effect with atypical antipsychotic medication (such as risperidone) and is caused by an increase in prolactin, a hormone which stimulates milk production and is, unsurprisingly, usually produced and secreted during pregnancy.

It's far from an urban myth and can be quite disturbing - if you're schizophrenic (or even if you're not), the last thing you want as a bloke is to suddenly start lactating.

I once fell for the 'dog being put down because of anal sex' urban myth
(Fri 6th Jan 2006, 15:59, More)

» Dad Jokes

like most of these
this one seems to involve the dinner table in some way...
whenever anyone asks my dad to pass the pepper or salt, my dad will move as though to pass it to them, then continue his arm in a circle, returning the aforementioned condiment to its original resting place. Do you see what he does there? he passes the condiment past us.
My how we laugh, as we crack open his skull and feast on the spicy, crispy brains.
I'm 27 now, and he's 56, but it still comes out every sodding time.
(Wed 10th Dec 2003, 9:26, More)

» Posh

Count, occasioanlly with a silent o
A friend of mine, lets call him Al, since that's his name, is a real honest-to-goodness bona fide gen-you-wine count.
From proper Spanish aristocracy and everything.
He even has a proper count's hairline (that's a Ray Reardon, or a Jim Robinson if you don't like snooker) and a stately pile in the Isle of Man and everything.

He's an actor and was in the Stephen Fry-directed film Bright Young Things, playing a lord, and he had to make his voice slightly less posh for the role.

Oh, and the Port Out Starboard Home thing is not true at all. That story is a reverse acronym urban myth, one where a word was assumed to be an acronym when it was nothing of the sort.

Oh, and to all the Americans out there, posh doesn't mean either rich or famous, it means being part of the aristocracy, or at least having been rich for many, many generations.
(Thu 15th Sep 2005, 11:46, More)