You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for Moey:
Profile Info:

Originally a wurzel from Wiltshire, I moved in ever diminishing circles until I found myself in the big city, from where I've been planning my escape ever since.

I tend to visit QOTW and post poorly written pieces to pass the time at work.

Free Web Site Counters
Free Web Site Counters

Recent front page messages:


Best answers to questions:

» Presents

A Proppa Cuppa
The giving of gifts should make us feel warm and generous. It's not truly selfless; it leaves us feeling happy that we've provided a little slither of joy for someone and that should always be the reward we receive in return.

And so it was when, as I strolled around Sainsbury's last just-before-Christmas, that I spied a pint glass / tankard style mug among the "cheap gifts to disappoint your work colleagues who insist on doing secret-fucking-santa" section.

"My flatmate likes tea and he likes pints of things; he'll fucking love this!" said my brain to itself and I agreed that it would indeed be so. So I bought it without a second thought.

And I was right... he loved it. A smile crept onto his little face and I got all those feelings of generosity and warmth that I'd imagined. How nice I felt to make my friend happy with so simple a gift, and cheap too; every one's a winner, or so you may think.

Immediately the kettle was warmed and tea was made: his in his shiny new mega mug; mine in my favourite, trusty, old, slightly stained, small, stupid, normal-sized, rubbish mug. I seethed with secret envy at the giganta-mug that my flatmate gleefully supped his tea from, while I was forced to endure the humiliation of normal sized tea drinking.

My next supermarket trip saw me search feverously for my own pint mug, but with Christmas now just a heavy memory hanging around my slightly distended belly, the cheap tat section had been packed away for another year and in its place lay shelves of rubbish stuff to buy under the pretense of making a new start for the new year.

No mega mugs remained and I knew I'd have a year of watching my flatmate enjoy huge vats of tea while I sipped at thimbles of sour, second rate rubbish. Every time I made him a cuppa the water would chuckle mockingly at me as I poured gallons of it into this bottomless holy grail. I searched shop shelves whenever I saw mugs displayed, but none could match up to the marvel of what had now become the greatest gift I never got given.

And then I moped around Sainsbury's yesterday in search of another effortless secret santa for another soon-to-be-disappointed colleague and stumbled upon the same section of shite gifts. I couldn't believe it, I literally stood and rubbed my eyes with utter disbelief, for there, among the Make Your Own Yo-Yo kits and Bore Your Own Family To Death books was the object of my tea drinking desires, a pile of them, all shiny and new and waiting for me to drink pint after pint of warm tea from their copious bellies.

One of them sits by me now, brimming with steaming tea and making me feel once again content with all in my tea based world. You may not appreciate reading this much about naught but a mug, but clearly you don't have one of your own, for if you did you would surely understand*.

*or, you know, you'd probably still think this is far too long a piece about a fucking mug and you're probably right, but it's raining out and I'm bored silly, so tough titties!
(Sun 29th Nov 2009, 15:56, More)

» Spoilt Brats

My attempt to act spoilt:
"Mum, I want that." *points to some toy or other*

"That's how you ask for things now is it?"

"Ok, can I have that then?"

"I still didn't hear a please."

*tuts* "Please can I have that?"

"Yes, you can have it for your birthday."

"Buuuuut, that's not for aaaages, I want it now."

"Well, Christmas is before your birthday, you can wait till then."

"Only just. I don't want to wait."

"Then buy it yourself."

"Pffft, I can't afford it."

"Then you'll have to wait."

"I don't want to wait. Buy it for me. Now."

"Talk to me like that again and you'll get nothing but a slap."

*talks to her like that again*

*gets nothing but a slap*

*doesn't talk to her like that again*
(Fri 10th Oct 2008, 14:01, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

It was the pits.
I was a horny teen and I sat and stared with wild-eyed bewilderment at the very stunning and totally topless Teutonic temptress as she froliced on the beach only yards from my stirring loins. I'd never been abroad, and I had no idea that in abroad women would expose themselves on a packed beach, let alone jiggle their perfect, beautifully tanned jubblies in full view of slobbering teens such as myself.

I was in love. She was delightful and even the short brown hairs that jutted from her armpits couldn't quench my burning desire for this bespectacled beauty. Offers to go with my parents for ice cream were barely registered and swiftly dismissed; partly as I was determined that my eyes wouldn't miss a drop of the treat they were drinking in, but also because my swimming shorts offered scant disguise for the admittedly meagre swelling they contained.

But the law, as it pertained to toplessness on the beaches of France, wasn't sufficiently specific for the horny young me. It was certainly permitted to expose ones breasts should one desire, and that pleased me for what seemed like forever as I watched my siren make countless deposits in my recently opened account at the bank of wank. But the lack of restrictions in this newly discovered and sometimes lovely law meant that I was suddenly left with an overwhelming desire to detach my eyes when the sunlight was blocked by my sweetheart's elephantine mother as she waddled into view, pendulous breasts a-swing and the wind flowing freely through her hair... the hair, that is, that circled her nipples.

It was as though she'd shot me in the cock with an anti-arousal ray. I was softened in seconds as if she'd squeezed the life from my loins with one of her all too ample hands. Nausea gripped my stomach and twisted it while I wished a wind would kick sand into my eyes to relieve them of the terror of this sight. And then she bent away from me to pick up the ball she'd so carelessly dropped, her all too small bikini bottoms vanished into her cavernous arse and I knew immediately that she'd robbed me forever of the most wonderful sight my eyes had seen outside of my dad's special magazines. Later that night as I tried to picture the perfection I'd seen in her daughter, the wrinkled face, rhino-skin arse and sagging boobs of my tormentor swam into my mind's eye, and then the nightmares began.
(Thu 28th May 2009, 17:35, More)

» Cars

Cleared for take off...
I'd always imagined I'd be shamed by a wild, sobbing panic, screeching that I'm too young to die and clawing manically at the windows 'til blood ran clear from my fingertips. As it happened, with the corner sliding away to my side and my friend dabbing uselessly at the brakes while turning the wheel left and right in an utterly futile attempt to regain even a modicum of control, I simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

The roadside bank gave itself gently to our advances and allowed the wheels to run smoothly over its crest, giving us clearance for take off and safe passage towards the small stream that skirted the field. Our flight was brief and uneventful and upon landing I let out a small guff and giggled happily to myself, while the pilot looked pleased with what was a relatively soft return to earth and the front wheels span uselessly above the bank of the stream.

We disembarked and were in the process of pushing the car back towards the road when the next flight trundled along the runway just as we had only moments earlier. Tire noise ceased as the Landrover's wheels hit black ice and I saw the passenger watch the corner slide away from his window; they were cleared for take off and we hadn't yet vacated the runway, leaving us little choice but to run away... my passage took me along the bank, but my pilot had opted only to leap backwards without a thought as to what was behind him.

And so it was, when the passengers of the belatedly aborted flight clambered out of their Landrover, they were greeted by the most unusual scene ever to be found in that dark and quiet country lane: for I was bent double, tears streaming down my cheeks and laughter pouring from my face, while the world's rudest stream splashed profanities and demanded that I stop fucking laughing and just fucking help it.
(Fri 23rd Apr 2010, 10:21, More)

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

Not man flu
Yeah, I've had man flu. It was horrific. I think I nearly died at one point.

But this was worse, so much worse. This was proper flu; straight up, no nonsense, fever fuelled flu.

I really did nearly die.*

It kicked in one Saturday while I was working in a bookshop. I felt a bit grotty when I woke up that morning, but I was a brave little soldier and dragged myself into work anyway. That's the kind of man I am.

Around mid morning I started shivering like a smack head in the grips of withdrawal, and the customers began eyeing me suspiciously.

By lunch time I was scanning the shop for somewhere to curl up and die, and the rest of the already heavily depleted staff were telling me to go home.

Mid afternoon and even the customers were telling me to go home. In my head I was already curled up on my sofa, having left my useless carcass in the shop.

All the while the gargoyle who called herself my boss was telling me that going home would be a big mistake and that I'd have no job to come back to if I did. She couldn't sack me for being ill, I knew that much, but I wasn't the best employee and she was just looking for an excuse; like the trigger happy copper who follows a 'suspicious' man into the underground, her gun could go off any minute.

That is until a kindly customer, who'd told me I should go home that morning, passed by and saw me pretending to distribute new books about the shop, and came in demanding to know why I hadn't left yet. I explained that the Wicked Witch had threatened me with the Spanish if I did, so I was just going to struggle on through (see, brave little soldier).

"I don't fucking think so." she spat, before marching up to the Evil Dwarf and, in front of a large queue of people, informed her that I would be leaving for the day, that I would be back when I'm well, and that if I suffered even so much as a misplaced comment then she, the quite high ranking legal somethingorother that she was, would represent me for nothing when I took them to court. By this point I was just floating around above them, watching the whole scene with a dispassionate detachment as the fever took hold in my head, and was more than happy to let her make such a scene on my behalf.

She then told me to gather my things, led me by the hand to her car and drove me home, ranting all the way about her hatred of power hungry losers like my boss. I assumed there was some history there, but I didn't dare interrupt her long enough to ask.

I think I almost called her mummy when I thanked her as I stumbled out of her car at my house. She gave me her card insisting I called her if my boss so much as looked at me funny when I went back to work. I didn't last much longer in that job, mostly because the 9k a year they paid me wasn't enough to pay the rent, but also because the dried up, mop haired old cunt (I don't still hold a grudge, these are just the terms we used to refer to her at the time) made sure I couldn't enjoy my time there.

So thank you mummy crazy lawyer lady, I managed to drag that illness out for days longer than I should have and didn't even have to produce a doctors note when I went back, or anything.

*Ok, I still didn't really, but, you know, it was horrible.
(Fri 3rd Oct 2008, 12:16, More)
[read all their answers]