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Profile for Pooflake:
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By day I'm an I.T dweeb (who knows nothing about IT) from the glorius, picturesque shite-hole that is Coventry. By night I'm a loud-singing, fun-lovin' mostly harmless semi-alcoholic bell-end.

Fortunately, I have a few mentalist mates and relatives who, along with my own general odd-ish-ness help provide me with apparently unlimited material for the QOTWs.

This could be fun...

This is the real Pooflake whose name I half-inched:



He's wearing a baby's hat - I think he manages to make it look quite awesome.

This is me belming at school:



This is a recent photo of me:



Please excuse the counter...I'm just interested. 11/09/07

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I'm just like Krusty!
I'm Krusty, who are you? by NoHomers.net




You Are Straight



There's not much queer about you.

So let's just say you're straight... but not narrow.

What's Your Sexual Orientation?


CadaverForSale.com
CadaverForSale.com - How much is your cadaver worth?


how jedi are you?
:: by lawrie malen

Recent front page messages:


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Best answers to questions:

» Workplace Boredom

I perform acts of impromptu revenge…

Tenuous, but it was at work…

The other morning, I was sat on the khazi, as you do…and I’d finished my unusually efficient ‘innards evacuation’ activity…without any disastrous calamity (for a change)…so was happily finishing a game of solitaire on my phone before meandering back to work…

Suddenly, I heard the sound of the toilet block door being hoofed open, quickly followed by the urgent clatter of hurried steps…somebody obviously had a ‘mole at the counter’ in quite a dire (and potentially catastrophic) way.

The next thing I heard was the door of the trap next to me being slammed shut…then my poor ears bore witness to the frenzied sounds of dunghampers being wrenched down, followed by the gurning exasperation of a man whose spluttering ringpiece was blasting forth death-defying decibels of defecation…it was an almost virtuoso musical impersonation of the eruption of ‘Mount Vesuvius’ performed on the solo bum-trumpet.

I placed my hands firmly over my ears as I heard splats ricocheting around the battered bowl, and suffered the din of a pitiful poo-perpetrator squirming on the seat, groaning, farting and running his hands down the wall panel as he tried to hold on for dear life through the sheer violence of this excessive excrement exorcism.

At this point, (mid-whimper) I recognised the voice – It was none other than Derek, the potbellied, bullying mongoloid with a face like a freshly felched fudge funnel…

The very same Derek, in fact, who thinks he’s a fucking ‘kung fu master’ just because he’s watched the ‘Transporter’ movies, and who went out of his way (without any provocation) to try and make me look like a sirloin cuntsteak in front of the board of directors at the last meeting we attended. We don’t know each other that well, but his smarmy, nasal whine is burned into my mind.

I continued wretching quietly to myself as his sphincter-numbing slurry-fest perpetuated mercilessly next door…then to my surprise I heard some of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you can imagine following such carnage.

I heard the sound of someone reaching for the loo-roll, closely followed by the sound of an empty tube being spun about its holder…then the sorrowful groan from a total wankspanner of a bloke being rapidly plunged into darkest despair.

I checked my watch…and realised Derek was already late for a very important meeting. Also, I could barely comprehend how uncomfortable he must have been sat atop that mound of munting mess from his mutilated mud-oven.

Disclaimer: Now please believe me, beautiful b3tards, I’m normally quite a nice, amiable guy…but I think you’ll all agree that I have had more than my fair share of crapper-related mishaps and misery…besides…this bloke is a right cunt.

So now...it was PAYBACK TIME.

I patiently waited, until with cringing inevitability, I heard Derek’s voice, trembling with shame as he was forced to humbly request the kindness of a ‘stranger’ through the brown, gassy wisps that were now slowly relieving him of his life-force by way of painful suffocation…

Derek *knocks*: ‘Scuse me mate, pass us some paper under?’

I contemplated for a moment…then spitefully confidently replied:

‘No!’



Derek: ’Pardon?’

Me: ‘What? – are you deaf as well as disgusting? It’s not my fault if you didn’t check for bogroll before you decided to splatter the place, and befoul the whole area with your repugnant effluence…so NO!’

Derek: ’Well, erm…what am I supposed to do?’

Me: ‘Quite frankly that’s none of my concern. Now…If you don’t mind I’ll be on my way. Enjoy.’

Derek: ‘Oh god, mate, I’m desperate! P-p-p-pleeeeease?’

Me (putting on fake ‘friendly’ tone): ‘Awww …well…’

After a dramatic pause my voice changed to a more vicious snarl as I continued:

Me: ‘Fiver’.

Derek: ‘What?’

Me: ‘You heard me. Five.English.Pounds. Consider it a fine for your lack of foresight and adequate preparation…like an ‘Idiot Tax’. Give me a fiver and I’ll see what I can do’.

Derek: ‘Fuck Off!’

Me: ‘Fair enough. Not my problem boyo. I’ll just inform the board that you won’t be attending the meeting then…(Here I start to whistle with an attempt at ‘menacing nonchalance’)

Derek: ‘Are you joking?.....Awww come on?’

Me: ‘Don’t ‘Awww come on’ with me, matey….and you’d better make your mind up quick…the price is going up…’

Derek: ‘Oh my GOD!’

After a brief pause I then heard the sound of tutting and mumbling, before a begrudged rummaging of clothes, and to my utter disbelief, a wrinkled up five pound note was coyly pushed under the side panel towards me.

He must have been really desperate.

Even though I was initially staggered at his submissive behaviour, It only served to spur me on.

Me: ‘There you go…now that wasn’t so difficult now was it?’

And with that, I tore off one single square of bogroll and slipped it back under the cubicle wall.

Derek: ‘Wha….? Is that it?’

Me: ‘Well, you didn’t stipulate exactly how much bogroll you would be requiring, did you?’

Derek: ‘*whimper* oh bloody hell…ok then …*sigh*. Could I have lots more please?’

Me (cheerily): ‘Noooo problem………that'll be another fiver’

Derek: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!…But I haven’t got any more money’

Me: ‘Oh dear….*tuts* Oh dear oh dear…You haven’t learned a thing, have you?‘

And with that, I promptly begin to make my way out…making deliberate ‘step’ sounds towards the door…pretending to abandon Derek in his rancid honk-hovel.

Derek (with an audibly increased state of panic): ‘Oh god mate…don’t be like that…help us….please mate…..mate?......MAAAAATE!?!!

I then heard his whimpers turned to sniffs, then mumbles of ‘oh-god-oh-god-oh-god' to himself…as he struggled to comprehend his options.

(I, meanwhile, became increasingly and joyously aware that he was just as afraid of toilet-related embarrassment as I was).

I then also realised that it actually wouldn’t be too long before someone else turned up to use the facilities...and whoever arrived would no doubt help him out, so I decided to bring my fun to an end.

As a final act, I walked back towards his cubicle and knocked on the door…

Me: ‘Alright then, cunt-face, I’ll let you off. Be more careful in future’.

With relief ebbing from his words he courteously gasped: ‘Oh, cheers pal’.

I then pushed his five pound note back under the door and said: ‘There you go…You can wipe your arse on that!’

At this point Derek let out a sigh so pathetic that it reverberated around the cold toilet tiles…and I just couldn’t stand anymore…I burst out laughing, then relented, handing him a big wadge of the precious poo-wipe-paper which he had coveted for so long.

And you know what?…deep down…I don’t think I’m really cut out for that kind of behaviour…If it hadn’t been for B3ta, I probably wouldn’t have done anything…

so I blame you lot – my conscience is clear…sort of…this time anyway.

But just in case…I’ll still hang on to that ticket to Hell…

(Fri 9th Jan 2009, 12:57, More)

» Housemates

The Colour Purple…

Disclaimer: Please get comfy…and you might want to get a cup of coffee / can of Redbull / gram of speed to keep you going through this one…

When my brother and the sugar-coated Sherman tank that ended up becoming his (now ex) wife were star crossed young lovers, they were desperate to shack up together and plunge nose-first into credit-related chaos.

Unfortunately, they were hindered in their plight by that annoying, age old stumbling block of having no job, no money…and criminal records.

Their doomed blossoming romance needed help…and someone answered their call…

Behold! Bumbling along, like a drunken, late-teens, slightly sex-obsessed superhero, whose special powers consisted only of regular employment, being debt-free and having no previous convictions against his name…step forward 'Super Pooflake' – aka: ‘Security Bond & Deposit Guarantee Boy’!

I signed up and lived there for about a year or so, genuinely enjoying my first taste of freedom without the parents...although to be fair, my folks were always pretty liberal on the ‘bringing girls home’ front (Dad used to ‘high five’ me as I escorted the young ladies out of the house 'post-humpage'). My steady girlfriend of the time pretty much moved in with me, work was nearby – all was good.

Unfortunately, although we made a fair fist of blissful cohabitation for a while, living under the same roof as my brother and his monu-mentalist missus simply couldn’t last.

(Their domestic disputes made the hundred years war look like a ‘bit of a tiff’…I soon developed a sort of Jedi-esque ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ ability at spotting violent arguments just before they kicked off…and spider senses to avoid ashtrays just before they whizzed past my head)

Eventually, I informed them of my decision to move out, and all was amicably agreed. They had been on the premises for over a year, were getting by and were settled in; however, they asked me to hang around for a bit whilst they found a replacement lodger to help them with the almost overlooked matter of paying.the.fucking.rent.

I don’t know how, or where from, but eventually, they found their saviour in the spindly form of ‘Nigel’.

Nigel was an accountant-type fellow and owned a home PC, and this was in the days where your average compooter-a-tron was the size of an articulated lorry, had twirly-round tape wheel thingies, and thousands of nondescript lights blinking on and off like the set of Blake’s 7.

I was impressed. However, my suspicions were first aroused as to him possibly having ‘rolled onto the mouldy side of the fruit bowl’ when I was helping him move in, and I complimented him on some of the artwork that adorned his new bedroom walls.

Although the subject matter wasn’t exactly my ‘cup-of-tea’ (general wildlife, gore fests, people hanging from trees etc), I could at least acknowledge the talent involved.

“They’re good” I bleated nervously before enquiring: “Did you paint them yourself?”

He then informed me that he had bought the paintings from various artists, but that every piece had one thing in common. Each artist featured in his collection had later committed suicide…this was his motivation for buying them.

'Ooooooookay then' thinks I, as I slowly back out of the room...

Nigel got past the first few days without incident, and like so many stories on this QotW will no doubt testify, he seemed to be one of those guys who pretty much ‘kept himself to himself’.

To celebrate his arrival (and my subsequent freedom), we decided to venture out for a good old ‘boozy do’. Nigel was invited but said he had ‘other plans’. Non perturbed, my brother, his g/f and I went to our local and partook in the time-honoured tradition of getting bladder-bustingly shitfaced.

When kicking out time came, we were predictably kicked out, and we staggered back to the house for a 'sophisticated night cap' (tins of cider), and the welcome invitation for me to sleep on the sofa.

We crept along as we approached the house, in a conscientious move to avoid causing a disturbance. My brother’s g/f then quietly opened the front door, and as we tip-toed along the hallway we noticed that the lounge light was still on. ‘Ah, Nigel must still be up’, we thought to ourselves as we opened the door…

The sight that awaited us shook me to the very core.

Nigel was laying flat out on the floor, plum faced, completely stark-bollock naked, except for his trollies which were pulled down by his ankles, and a thick leather belt wrapped tightly round his throat. In one of his hands was a half drunk bottle of scotch…on his other hand was a purple silk glove, and in it he was holding his limp, dribbling, flaccid bacon bazooka, which was drooping snoozily, with a drizzle of post-ejaculatum oozing from his blistered hog’s eye. Surrounding him was a collection of jizzed-to-a-pulp tissues, scattered liberally about like stumpy, scrunched up little monuments to all things spunkilicious.

Nigel had passed out completely…fixed with the kind of glazed, gurning expression that you find on mongs clutching tickets to a Chuckle Brothers extravaganza.

He had quite literally wanked himself into blurry unconsciousness.

Aghast at this initial sight, our eyes were then turned to the subject playing on the video…

Despite the shaky camerawork, we could clearly make out an uncomfortable-looking woman repeatedly thrusting herself back and forth on to the gargantuan dangling phallus of a strapping farm horse – and both parties were ‘whinnying’ frantically as the dong-tastic Dobbin was plunged balls deep into her cavernous cack-canyon time and time again.

As we collectively recoiled we were just in time to watch another young lady collect about half a gallon of fresh horse spaff into a carrier bag…then tip it all over herself.

Time then seemed to slow down for us, Matrix style, as we stood there looking at the screen, then each other, then Nigel, then the screen again...as we noticed the action had changed to feature a rather blessed-in-the-chest-department female receiving enthusiastic oral pleasure from a weapons grade Rottweiller…whilst another was frying the dog’s miniature mountain of munting manure…and eating it. (she was using a knife and fork though...it seems there’s always time for good table manners).

Whooooa?” I mewed meekly, leaving my mouth agape as my fledgling mind warped more and more beyond recognition with every passing frame of filthy film footage.



Eventually, my brother timidly ponders: “Ahh……erm……Shhhh, don’t wake him” he whispers kindly, holding his finger to his lips.

In the meantime, his psychopathic significant other had stepped over Nigel, and quietly switched off the TV…But as she heard my brother's words she breathed deeply, then visibly ‘snapped’ – screaming out at a lung-collapsing volume:

”DON’T FUCKING WAKE HIM?”

Bellowing with a force that would have had Brian Blessed reaching for the ear plugs, she continued: ”Oi! *kicks Nigel stoutly in the ribs* – you dirty, filthy fucker! What the fucking FUCK do you think you’re doing?”

Nigel slowly awoke and he rubbed his eyes, then after a brief realisation of his surroundings and the situation, he let out a piercing screech, like tyres in a 70’s car chase, before catapulting himself skywards in the manner of someone who had just received 3000 volts through his wrinkled, spent scrote (which on reflection he probably would have enjoyed).

He then desperately scrambled about for his clouts, whilst attempting in vain to cover as many offending articles as he could; yet only succeeding in doing what looked like a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance.

Gazing down at this pathetic personification of purest perversion I tried to stifle the onset of giggles by adopting the moral high ground, ‘tutting’ loudly, shaking my head slowly, then turning and walking away in mock disgust…before running out of earshot and laughing like a particularly ticklish drain.

I slept in the bath.

To his credit, Nigel didn’t move out straight away… Fair play to him, he tried to ‘live it down’, but there are just some things that no amount of apologising can make up for, some things that you can’t just 'sweep under the carpet' (especially when you know what has taken place on that carpet)

Most of all…it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye.

He lasted about a fortnight.
(Fri 27th Feb 2009, 11:58, More)

» Good Advice

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…

NOTE: This started out as just a harmless (and brief) anecdote, explaining the wisdom of the title advice, however my pent up B3ta-ness has made this somewhat snowball into what seems to have turned into an attempt at the B3ta world length record…so apologies in advance…

Lights!…Camera!…Wavy Lines ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few years ago, I was what could politely be described as ‘a bit down on my luck’ but could be more accurately described as ‘utterly botty-fucked from the planet twist-a-bollock on a sponsored ‘being elbowed-in-the-plums-a-thon’. Suffice to say I had no girlfriend, no job, cock all money, and lived in a shit heap area of war-torn Coventry that was a bubonic blistered boil on the burping backside of middle England.

I spent 3 months renting a squalid little shoebox of a flat, inside a dilapidated tower block that I’m certain was only kept standing due to of a combination of dry rot and the dark side of the force. I spent most of my nights drinking heavily, trying to convince myself that my situation was ‘only temporary’, and fannying about on my beloved new PC which I had (probably unwisely) spent my last few pennies on. This of course, didn’t dispel the fact that I was lonlier than a leprous, blindfolded ginger Fritzl kid on a desert island.

As I plummetted nose-first towards rock bottom, the only people I would have any sort of social contact with were my neighbours - a young couple named Kevin and Amy.

Kevin was a wallowing winnet of workshy sphincter gristle, whom I loathed like you would a seeping haemorrhoid. He, on the other hand, had decided to kindly ‘tolerate’ me due to my harmlessness, and because I would turn an indifferent blind eye to his almost combustible chav-ity, his small time drug deals (conducted in the style of a wannabe gangsta rapper), and his habitual late-night blaring of chronically shoddy boom-bastic rumbling skull-fuck torturous noises that he seemed to consider were ‘top choons’.

Despite his pasty pale skin and lank, greasy blond hair, he insisted on being called ‘The K-Man’ and he sauntered around pretending to act more ‘black’ than if Samuel L. Jackson did an Al Jolson Minstrel impression after an unfortunate collision incident involving tarmac, shoe polish and a permanent marker pen. We’re talking ‘typecasting-to-the-point-of-downright-insulting’ here.

So, like the hideous bastard lovechild of Ali G and Kerry Katona that he seemed to be, ‘The K-Man’ was perpetually blinged up with the finest ‘Lizzie Duke’ gold from Argos, and tracksuited up to the tattoo on his neck with the sort of natty threads that JJB sports would regularly spew onto their ‘reduced-to-clear’ shelves. This guy really was a world class phenomenal bell-end, but like I said I was bored, broke and lonely, so I tolerated him too, and would frequently pop round and help relinquish him of his freshly shop-lifted alcohol reserves.

OK, I’ll admit it…there was another reason I tolerated him - His girlfriend. Amy was quite a pretty young filly, and for the life of me I couldn’t understand what she was doing with a malodorous mong-spack like K-Man. She was 24, and like me, she also presented herself with the demeanour of somebody who had fallen upon hard times but didn’t really belong there. We would share a friendly word when we passed each other on the vom-splattered stairs (the piss soaked lift was always borked). She would tell me about her problems with K-Man, and we would laugh as we spoke about how we should ‘run away together and start a better life’. She was joking. I wasn’t.

She had kind, soft eyes that hid her sorrow well, whilst possessing a wicked sense of humour and respectable intellect. However, I feel I should also mention that a mere glance at her perfectly sculpted body made me feel hornier than being hand delivered a Viagra-spiked oyster sandwich from a butt-naked Girls Aloud; and this was in no small part due to the fact that she proudly sported a pair of such gelatinous gertstonking wondernorks that my beef bazooka threatened to rip through my trollies every time that I was even within their gravitational pull. They were such pert, pointy, pendulous pods of perfection and during my special ‘me-time’ I would regularly tug myself blurry whilst fantasising about motorboating them.

However, for reasons unknown, she was with the cunting K-Man and I respected her decision – and kept my severe frustrations to myself at the fact that he treated her as if she was a lump of southern-fried shite on a piece of dog-turd Ryvita.

Of all his faults though, I felt that possibly the worst thing about him was that underneath his gangsta-chav, uber-twunt exterior, he was secretly a proper mummy’s boy - he would be on the phone to his old ‘ma’ at least 5 times a day. She would regularly ‘pop round’ impromptu, let herself in and do his washing for him, pay his bills, and clean up once a week. Much to Amy’s dismay, Kevin had also embraced (stolen) technology, and had even set his mum up with a new-fangled webcam so that she could regularly check up on them online. The old hag was bitterly resentful towards poor Amy and was constantly critical of her, even actively encouraging K-man to cheat on her, and openly declaring that she thought Amy ‘wasn’t good enough for her boy’. Oh, and God help any of us any time Kev’s mum when she couldn’t get hold of him; she would hunt him down like a Terminator bloodhound, and she would think nothing of regularly calling me with messages to pass on when he wasn’t around…

which is where I drag you to the evening in question…

I had received a call from K-Man’s mum, saying that his phone was constantly engaged, and demanding I go round and tell him to get in contact. (Normally I wouldn’t have been arsed, but I was tired of drinking alone, and thinking of spending some fleeting time with Amy made the short walk down the corridor worthwhile).

As I knocked on the door, Amy answered and invited me in. Sure enough, K-Man was on the phone sorting out one of his deals and he beckoned me over to the sofa where a freshly robbed crate of cider was laying nearby. ‘Help yourself’ he mouthed to me. I quietly wished he was talking about his girlfriend, but I grabbed a can nonetheless and started guzzling away.

As soon as he finished the call, I told him about contacting hs mum and spotted Amy rolling her eyes as K-Man interrupted me. “Not now, eh?” he said “ I’ve just done a MASSIVE mo’ fuckin’ deal! (about £40 quid’s worth – crikey!)…so we is havvin’ a celebration!” and he pointed me towards the bottle of vodka on the table.

A good hour or so later we were all getting spod-tacularly cunted, and as Kev’s accent slipped like a lubed-up conga-eel plonked in a bucket of chip-fat, I sat and fidgeted uncomfortably in my role as unwitting gooseberry inbetween this odd couple’s spats over his infidelity, his blatantly disrespectful attitude, and the everpresent overbearing interference from K-Mum - the monsterous mother. However, like an oasis in a desert of drudgery, the conversation subject somehow eventually changed. Oh yes...It turned to sex.

(Of course, being a gentleman, I tried to remain sensitive in the presence of a lady, and modestly tried to keep my prowess as a ‘galloping lurve brontosaurus’ to myself *ahem*.)

However, K-Man had other ideas, and he took every opportunity to boost his already gargantuan ego; slurring through language more suited to the Bronx than to Allesley Green where he grew up. Fortunately for me, he was so wrapped up in his own self-importance that he seemed blissfully unaware of the sizzling sexual chemistry that seemed to crackle and sparkle between Amy & I like electrically charged Rice Crispies sprinkled with pissflap shaped potassium pieces and dipped in a velvety pouch of Lothario love lotion.

Eventually, as Kev was bigging himself up for the umpteenth time, it appeared that he could tell I wasn’t particularly impressed, and he decided to try and stamp some alpha-male authority on the ground. “I’ll tell you what, Pooflake” he said. “…You see ‘er? *points at Amy*. She’s mah fawckin’ BITCH, Maaaan!” he continued with a snarl in his voice.

“Oh, leave off, you’re out of order mate…” I reply, genuinely outraged at his behaviour. “You shouldn’t talk about her like that”. Amy simply looked at the floor and shook her head timidly.

“Who give da fuck?” Kev continued, obviously too conceited and / or wankered to care. “I can do whatever I want to her, and she’ll always bring that pussy back for mo’, and I’ll tell you why…”

K-Man took another glug of vodka and answered my shocked expression by declaring: “…’Cos I am the best there is at licking da women out!” He continued relentlessly: “…I tell you man, she need it con-stant-leeey, I’m da best at giving it, and she knows it!”

Now although I am as soft as liquidised shite, I was starting to feel some rage building. “What the quacking quadraplegic fuck are you on about?” I growl at him, before chewing the anger back a bit too much and almost do a little sick in my mouth.

“Ya know it, man” He replied, and simply nodded his head slowly.

I knew I should have left it at that, but my disdain towards him swayed me somewhat, and my mischevious side decided to stir things up a little bit.

“Hmmm, Is that so?...” I replied with a raised eyebrow: “I’ll have you know that I’m quite adept at the old ‘prawn-gargling arts’ myself”… I desperately tried to cover up my actual inexperience in an attempt to counter his display of false bravado; swaying my head in a suave fashion as I continued: ”I’ve certainly tongue-lashed a ladies’ clitoral cola-cube or two in my time, and my reviews were always more than favourable…”

“Get da fuck outta here, murr-fucker!...” K-Man spluttered. “I tells ya wot - I betcha your new PC against my laptop that I give da better head to the bitches than you!” He spoke smarmily, seemingly oblivious to what an utterly foul twatflap he was being.

Fortunately, my sense of reason kicked in, and it warned me to put an end to what was developing into a no-win conversation with someone who possibly carries a blade: “No chance…” I said, “…Anyway…It’s a preposterous argument because we haven’t got a point of reference – somebody who could compare our techniques and give us…you know…a ‘rating’…’marks out of 10’ or something”…I then glanced wistfully over to Amy who sat stoic with a sullen yet dignified silence.

At that point I knew that I had dipped my metaphorical ‘toe into the water’, and Kev took the bait like the overly proud and pisstarded piranha that he was. He thought for a moment, then confidently turned to Amy and said: “How about it? Will you let Pooflake have a go on ya so ya can decide who’s best?”

“What the?....” Amy screamed in shock. “Fuck you! How dare you treat me like a piece of meat!” She quite rightly stabbed her finger angrily at him, but then she turned to me, and to my intense delight (and attentive undercarriage) I detected a slight glint in her eye, and she gave a sly little smile which instantly rocketed my spunktrumpet to ‘white alert’.

Kevin was undettered, drunk, stoned and revelling in his newfound role of pimping out his poor girlfriend. “Go on, mah bitch!, do as I say!“ he spat defiantly. “…yo’ gonna find out that yo’ getting the best, and I can blag some good money after I sell his fuckin’ PC!”

Although his arrogance almost made my ears bleed, I felt like I had to interrupt. “Oh no…” I said, “…I couldn’t possibly…this is…ahem…ridiculous?…” but I spoke half heartedly, because although I could see Amy fuming at K-Man’s despicable disrespect, I still thought that I should at least attempt to do the honourable thing – despite the fact that I was secretly gagging to get nostril deep into Amy’s moist flange-packet, and I couldn’t really gives a stoat’s speckled scrotum as to the feelings of a sycophantic cuntwarbler like Kevin.

Amy then got up out of her chair and looked K-Man straight into his beady little eyes. “I’ve told you before, Kevin…Be careful what you wish for…” She said with an eery calm, before glugging a swig from the vodka bottle, and calling his bluff. She walked off slowly towards the bedroom, then turned to me, giving a sexy little swing of her hips, and said with a husky tone: “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready…” She then closed the bedroom door behind her.

I froze on the spot and agonised for what seemed like ages - weighing up my options. I looked at the door - and then back at Kevin. Finally I spoke: “Ermm…You’re joking, right?...” I enquired meekly: “…I mean, are you sure about this?...” “…I don’t want to start any trouble…”

“Yeah yeah…Whatever – I don’t care…I know I’m DA MAAAAN! She’ll tell you to fuck off, anyway!” Kev confidently drawled. “…Just don’t cry too much when give me your murr-fuckin’ PC!”

I felt I was left with little option. “Erm…Okey dokey then…if you insist” I said as I stood up, walked slowly past him and gently knocked on the bedroom door…

The door was opened and I saw how the bedroom was tiny and cramped. There was only space for an unkempt bed, a couple of bedside cabinets and a dressing table, with Kev’s laptop sat pride-of-place, opened on top of it. (His ‘laptop’ was more like a gerbil-powered breeze-block of a beast, but it nonetheless represented cutting-edge technology at the time). Amy had put on a small personal CD player in the corner of the room and it was quietly playing some (thankfully half-decent) music, yet as I sat down on the end of the bed I was still certain that Amy was going to suggest a practical joke – like we were going to ‘pretend’ or something…

Nervously I finally muttered: “Erm…Ok then… how do we go about this?...I mean, w-w-would you like to kiss first?” I said with a timid chuckle.

“Are you kidding?...”Amy replied urgently. “…I’ve been waiting for this for ages” she then threw her arms around me and pushed her tongue so far down my throat that I thought I felt a kneecap pop out of joint.

She then ran her hand down my body and started grasping at my rapidly swelling groin-bulge as if it was the novelty horn on a clown’s car.

I pulled away. “Whoa there – are you sure about this?...what if he walks in?” I said, still trying to be diplomatic. “No way…” replied Amy “…he’s out of it, and he’s too much of a bigheaded bastard anyway. Besides…the thick twat has invited you to do it…you’ve got a challenge to beat…so don’t disappoint me…”

These few words alone almost gave me a case of premature stack blow in the trouser department. God knows why I was still trying to remain a gentleman...I should have realised that the time for chivalry had long since fucked off and caught the last bus home.

With our mouths locked together, Amy slowly guided my hand down past her skirt then up again, against her inner thigh and into her tiny lacy knickers. My hand was shaking but I delved in deeply, and frantically fumbled around what felt remarkably similar to one of those lumpy fisherman’s jumpers. I then proceeded to rummage excitedly in the fashion of somebody half-expecting to pull out a winning raffle ticket – yet my only ‘prize’ was to end up with fingers that munted a bit whiffy. After just a few blissful moments that I didn’t want to end, the time had arrived for me to demonstrate the reason I was there…

Tentatively, I slid her scuddies down past her knees and with gusto I started lapping at her salmon-scented snaffler like a slobbering St Bernard going at a particularly pungent prawn flavoured punnet of purified Pedigree Chum.

As she wriggled and writhed on the end on my turbo tongue titilation I could tell that her aromatic crotch wookie was rapidly heating to ‘Gash Mark 6’ and she was becoming increasingly desperate for me to ‘slam in the Lamb’.

“Oh my GOD!, ..” she cried dramatically, declaring: “…You’re sooo much better than that wanker Kevin”. Finally it appeared that she could hold out no more. “Fuck me...NOW!” yelled Amy, almost losing control as her flange frothily fizzed, resembling a cheap firework that had been set off into a churned up trough full of worms and bargain-bin bubble bath.

Being quick on the uptake, I was becoming slightly suspicious of the fact that the oral extravaganza I was providing was only to be the entrée in what was promising to be quite an exciting, five-course ‘sexeh-smorgasboard’…which I realised if I played my cards right could culminate in a dessert that could only be described as ‘an extremely sticky chocolate pudding’.

She pulled me up towards her, and then shoved her hand into my pants. After a brief wrangle, she then managed to heave out what was by then my ferociously tumescent, minge-heat-seeking, bollock-ballistic, man-meat-megaton missile…and the safety catch was well-and-truly ‘off’.

After a glisteningly skilful display of hand-to-gland, then mouth-to-south related gratitude, she climbed on all fours on to the bed and insisted I enter her from behind. Although I thought this a bit odd for a ‘starting’ position, I wasn’t going to argue and I triumphantly clamboured aboard. Before long I was getting well into my gut-nudging groove, I even crossed my arms over her arse and gently leaned on her as she gasped and bit down into the pillow.

Then, for a brief moment, I caught our reflection, sillhouetted in the blank laptop screen and I could not resist. I turned slowly to one side, smirked smugly and pretended that I was in an amateur 70’s grumble flick as she moaned in appreciation and confirmed with every breathless sigh at how I was apparently far superior to her useless turd of a boyfriend with his tiny little button-mushroom cock.

As I pounded away relentlessly I realised that the end was fast approaching…yet as she yelped louder and louder, I twanged with guilt as I wondered what her screams of pleasure must be like as they are heard by poor Kevin, sat in the next room. In fact, I was just about to have a crisis of confidence and stop right then…until she made a breathless request for a shufty up the old ‘brown trout dispenser’. Then, strangely, all such thoughts of guilt suddenly disappeared as I switched focus back to the task at hand.

Inevitably, after a few thoughtful thrusts up the chutney clunge my perculating gonads reminded me that it had indeed been a while for me, and the stark realisation hit that when this thing went off, there was going to be a sex-plosion of industrial jet-wash proportions…

But there was no going back now, and with my finest Tarzan-stylie yodelling ‘grunt’, I came…and came…and came. In fact, it was as if a cock-cream Krakatoa had erupted all over the surrounding area. As I spasmed and spurted continuously, I had soon produced forth enough scrote-snot from my love spuds to potentially keep the entire brigade of the ‘Whitley Ladies Guild of Facial Fanciers’ in cream pies and pearl necklaces for generations to come.

I splooged it deep inside her, but with my continual thrustage it started to dribble out the sides. I then pulled out with a ‘squelch’ and sprayed some over her back, but there was still more. Finally I turned away and spoffed what seemed like a remaining half gallon of hog’s-eye hollandaise all over the dressing table and laptop keyboard (which was sat there quietly with the lid still open). I then climbed off her and collapsed, spent, and knackered with my sex-wee gauge finally running on empty.

We briefly lay together on the bed and complimented each other on our performance, before remembering who was waiting outside.

I glanced towards the door. “But…What do we do now?” I asked with trepidation.

“Don’t worry…” said Amy “…I’ve been looking for a reason to dump that fucker, and I think I’ve just found it.”

We then made plans for her to stop with me that night, before cleaning ourselves up, straightening our clothes and preparing for the journey back into the lounge where the K-Man was waiting – his arrogant smirk now understandably wiped off his face entirely.

I ventured out first, and as I strolled out of the bedroom door I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye, as all of a sudden I got the feeling I was no longer welcome. I mumbled: “Well…erm…I guess I’ll be heading off home now”, trying to sound cheery and walking towards the front door, pausing only to pluck a stray pube out from between my teeth and flick it timidly towards the coffee table.

K-Man stood silently rooted to the spot. His shoulders haunched, his jaw agape and his face had the despondant expression of someone who had just been smacked in the mouth by a shovel with dead kittens nailed to it.

The awkward atmosphere was then interrupted as both our eyes turned to see Amy, proudly stood in the bedroom doorway looking directly at K-man – her hair dishevveled and her legs still slightly quivvering from the clattering orgasmic shudders she had experienced just moments before.

’Kevin…” she said quietly but sternly. “…We’ve got to talk…”

K-Man’s face fell as he knew what was coming, or more accurately, what had just been coming all over his bedroom and vigourously up his missus whilst he had sat outside feigning arrogance. There was nothing he could do…after all, he had instigated this. His massive ego and vile attitude had finally bitten him on the arse big time…yet Amy still had another shot to fire in her perfectly executed counter-attack.

She calmly continued: “But before that…”

“…I think your mum wants a word…”

She then stepped out of the doorway and K-Man could just about make out the laptop on the dresser – with the monitor switched back on and featuring the stunned, granite expression of his mother, glaring out with almost sub-atomic rage from the small flip-top screen.

It then became apparent to us all that as an impromptu yet bizarre and booze-fueled act of cruel double-vengeance, Amy had called the K-mum on the webcam just before I walked in to the room. She had then somehow deactivated the laptop screen and turned the volume down – leaving me none the wiser but allowing Kev’s flabbergasted mum to cop a ringside seat of the entire bout of bitter betrayal against her precious cock-boil of a son, by way of devastating dungfunnel debauchery.

(Quite why Amy quite felt so compelled to put on such a display, and why Kev’s mum stayed online to watch is anybody’s guess – but there she was – seething and screaming with her arms flailing about wildly as she demanded to speak to her son.)

K-Man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he recognised the personofication of vein-popping fuming vitriol on the screen….then he gawped awkwardly as his selfish, cretinous mind struggled to comprehend the consequences that he had unceremoniously dumped himself into. To his credit, he bravely, yet briefly tried to adopt his ‘gangsta’ stance and he scowled at Amy…but it was no use. As he stood there on a slight slant with his hands tucked into his armpits, a solitary tear started to streak down his shellshocked spotty cheek, and as the emotion started to overwhelm him, he trembled uncontrollably, Amy then joined me at the front door, put her arm around me warmly, and with a final act of proud defiance she turned to Kevin and said:

“Oh...and don’t forget about your bet. I’ll be back tomorrow to get my stuff and collect the laptop for Pooflake. Be a good chap and wipe it down before I arrive will you?.... byeeeee!”



Now I don’t know about poor Kevin, but I certainly learned an invaluable lesson that night...about treating women with respect. And it’s a lesson that I have never forgotten…So here’s some advice for you all…

Girls might be warm, soft and squidgy on the outside, but piss them off, and eventually you’ll find out that they can be more vengeful, cunning and downright vindinctive than a wheelbarrow full of angry Hitlers.
(Fri 21st May 2010, 12:14, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

Pray for Pooflake…

This has just happened…

Backstory: I had a massive Chinese Takeaway last night…mmmm. With extra curry sauce. It was nom-tastic.

What I hadn’t had however…is a good, old-fashioned 'didgeridoo'...a 'grand Macca'...a ‘Thora Hird’ (or for normal folk, a poo)…for nearly three days now.

Therefore, my cunning scheme was to quaff said copious amounts of Oriental delights, in the hope that the heavy (and highly potent) level of such spicy devoured goodness might dislodge what was proving to be a rather stubborn squatter up ‘cack canyon’.

And lorks, In the name of Peter Stringfellow’s near-perfect teabagging technique, it certainly did the happy trick.

So I'm at work, and after some more-than-adequate warning blasts, the time rapidly arrived for me to awkwardly waddle along like John Wayne to the Dump Depository Department, letting off little trumps as I go; and ‘tutting’ in order to either mask the ‘quacks’ or trying to nonchalantly blame the noises on squeaking chairs, shoeleather and suchlike.

I finally reach the Lavs…kicking the entrance door open with fevered desperation…and…every cubicle is taken! FUCKBILGE! I curse the gods of toilet mercy, shaking my fist in the air, before dragging myself back to my desk.

And I wait...considering that five long, agonising minutes is well enough time for everybody to finish, I squirm uncomfortably on my chair…counting the seconds until my next opportunity for feacal evacuation.

Then I go back and try again.

Now, the toilet block where I work is always pretty busy…but three fucking hairy-total-bastard visits later and I am still unable to find a free trap where I can dig out this urgently nudging bum banana from my terminally strained sphincter.

I feared that if someone didn’t relent quickly, you would all soon be watching the news footage of a giagantic brown mushroom cloud over the centre of England, with me sat on top of it, watching the grotesque devastation and loss of life that would make the Asian Tsunami seem like a ripple in a paddling pool filled with pot-pourri.

Minutes pass…I’m sweating like a peado in a playground with a packet of Royhpnol-laced Polo mints, and I'm afraid to relax my stomach muscles in case there is any 'uninvited oozing'…God help me I even prayed…I then ventured one last time…

Visit number 4…STILL no cunting joy…and I feel like I am about to turn inside out, leaving behind nothing but a dishevelled stomach bag filled with semi-masticated noodle slurry and fleshy, flapping bundles of internal organs.

Yet suddenly, in my angst-ridden desperation, like a gift from God himself, I notice the little ‘glint’ of a sign…

…on the disabled toilet door.

It’s like it is calling me...letting me know that it understands I have no other option. Besides, I reckon the 'roomy' cubicle is pretty much fair game anyway, considering the only disabled person in the place is ‘Helen’, the boring admin clerk with the bandy, buckled dwarf-legs.

I weigh up my options and make my decision to use the disabled chod bin. I rationalise to myself that It would be a far worse crime to burst my twitching bowels all over the surrounding corridor…

So I thought of my colleagues…equality…the children…(Well, the kids that needed dropping off at the pool anyway)…

And, after a quick check around, I tentatively step in….

The place is like a goddam Poo-planting paradise!.

But I didn’t have much time to admire the artwork on the walls…My clouts have barely reached my knees when…:

”UUrrggghhh….NNNngggg….Grrrrr…….”

*Spla-DOOOOOOOOSH!*

A monumental turd bearing a more-than-passable resemblance to a slimy brown Oil tanker emerges from my prolapsing rectum.

Although my hopes weren’t high, I just knew that this was going to be a wiping challenge of biblical proportions…the very polar opposite of a friendly ‘ghost’ crap.

The resulting aftercare service is indeed painful, multi-textured and laborious on my puckered papper passage. There is even blood involved. Ew.

Soon after, drained, exhausted, and with the stench of my rancid own-goal beginning to make my eyes water, I know the time has come to make good my escape.

I heave up my trollies and survey the damage with a heavy heart, yet vastly lightened bowel.

It looks like a post apocalyptic warzone. The bogroll has intermingled with the effluence, blood and water to create a sort of ‘chocolate-raspberry-ripple’ effect…Oh, the horror…

For the good of mankind I must banish this beastly behemoth to the watery depths from it's porcelain prison...so I tug on the bog handle…but it merely rattles in my hand…It’s like it’s not attached to anything. No flushing. Nothing. Just a gargantuan, putrid lump of purest ‘Forrest Gump’, with it’s tapered end poking out from the top of the water level, and a spirited reluctance to leave the party.

Oooh fucking hell.

I think to myself: ‘Is there some sort of secret, ‘Mason’s-handshake-like’ way to flush a disabled toilet?’

If there is…whatever it is, I couldn’t figure it out…and as the mound of fetid feculence and spent bumwad was starting to growl at me, I begin to frantically push and pull everything that looks even remotely like a handle in a vain and increasingly futile state of intense panic...

But nothing…nothing is getting rid of the abomination and insult to humanity that was the backside-busting brown trout staring at me from inside the pan.

Hitting it on the head with the spikey brush only made things worse.

Eventually, and with a crushing inevitability I realised I had no choice – I had to ‘abandon shit’…

I stealthily listened at the door…waiting until there was absolute silence. Then, biting my lip, I delicately turned the door handle, and slowly peered around. Nobody. Thank sweet merciful bollocks! I step out…still nobody. I close the door and take one stride away… the relief now sweeps over me in an almost orgasmic fashion as the realisation finally sinks in…’I’ve gotten away with it!’

The perfect Crime!

Now, with my tongue firmly lodged in my cheek and a cocky little ‘spring’ in my step, I metaphorically pat myself on the back, congratulate myself for a ‘Jobbie well done’…and swagger around the corner…

Straight into the path of Helen…poor, poor Helen…and her innocent helper…who is escorting her to the bogs.

Ah.

I couldn’t even bring myself to look her in the eye as she cheerily said ‘Alright, Pooflake?’

I mumbled something about being ‘extremely busy’ and shuffled off, glowing with shame.

Just the knowledge that she was about to helplessly hobble face-first into a deluge of my unholy arse-produce has condemned me for all eternity.

This kind of thing always seems to happen to me around Christmas time.

So…going to Hell?...Bring it on I reckon. It couldn’t be any worse than how I feel right now…

(Fri 12th Dec 2008, 13:33, More)

» Hypocrisy

Dare I say…

Asking for QotW suggestions, then ignoring them all and putting your own forward?
(Thu 19th Feb 2009, 13:22, More)
[read all their answers]