Profile for Donkey Hotay:
Network monkey, loafer and general ne'erdowell. Hopefully I'll fit right in.
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Network monkey, loafer and general ne'erdowell. Hopefully I'll fit right in.
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» The Dark
Fraternally Yours.
My brother is a right cunt. So am I and despite the age difference (he’s 7 years older than me) we get on really well. At least we do now. Going back to 1986 though and a six year old Donky is the pain in his brother’s arse. The one who trailed round after him on family holidays, spoiling his chances and generally being an apprentice cunt. This holiday was different.
We had gone to The Lakes for a holiday in a remote cottage attached to a really old farmhouse. There were some woods nearby and a stream that ran into a huge lake where you could swim. It took a whole 20 strokes to cross that lake. No farm kids, no holiday kids and no girls (yay!). Just me and Little John spending halcyon days making dens, lighting fires and roasting dead rabbits we’d found (didn’t eat them though, they smelled funny). The nights were a bit different. Pitch black except for the rare star-filled night. And obviously with not a lot to do the parents went to the local while me and LJ spent our time torturing each other and generally being brothers. One night descended into the usual lights out, get a torch tell ghost stories and he scared the shit out of me. Literally. I had to go poo before I went to bed.
Anyway I was lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head when I heard the door creak open and a scuttling noise as if something was scrabbling it’s way across the floor. The story of the night had been “The Disconnected Hand” where one of the locals had crashed his car and to save his life he’d cut off the hand that he was trapped by – AND IT CAME BACK! I was petrified. Really. Lying there rock like and unable to move, barely breathing in case the horrible revenant heard me (how the fuck could a hand hear? Try telling a six year old). Then I felt it. The hand was on my bed, I could feel the way the fingers were stretching out then curling up as it dragged itself up the bed. I could hear the soft rasping as it made it’s way up the bed. I could hear it breathing (yeah yeah yeah, I was six FFS). It was on my chest and still moving and as it got to my throat I grabbed it and bit as hard as I could. No, I didn’t sever a finger or anything, what I did though was savage the bastard. I ground my sharp little teeth into that hand and worried it like a towny dog on a sheep. The unearthly screams that came out if it were, well, unearthly. That was when I realised maybe it wasn’t a disembodied hand. It took three rolls of sticking plaster and six weeks before the cuts and infections healed properly.
And that, dear readers, is why my brother still insists it’s thanks to me he’s an ambidextrous wanker.
*POP*
(Fri 24th Jul 2009, 13:32, More)
Fraternally Yours.
My brother is a right cunt. So am I and despite the age difference (he’s 7 years older than me) we get on really well. At least we do now. Going back to 1986 though and a six year old Donky is the pain in his brother’s arse. The one who trailed round after him on family holidays, spoiling his chances and generally being an apprentice cunt. This holiday was different.
We had gone to The Lakes for a holiday in a remote cottage attached to a really old farmhouse. There were some woods nearby and a stream that ran into a huge lake where you could swim. It took a whole 20 strokes to cross that lake. No farm kids, no holiday kids and no girls (yay!). Just me and Little John spending halcyon days making dens, lighting fires and roasting dead rabbits we’d found (didn’t eat them though, they smelled funny). The nights were a bit different. Pitch black except for the rare star-filled night. And obviously with not a lot to do the parents went to the local while me and LJ spent our time torturing each other and generally being brothers. One night descended into the usual lights out, get a torch tell ghost stories and he scared the shit out of me. Literally. I had to go poo before I went to bed.
Anyway I was lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head when I heard the door creak open and a scuttling noise as if something was scrabbling it’s way across the floor. The story of the night had been “The Disconnected Hand” where one of the locals had crashed his car and to save his life he’d cut off the hand that he was trapped by – AND IT CAME BACK! I was petrified. Really. Lying there rock like and unable to move, barely breathing in case the horrible revenant heard me (how the fuck could a hand hear? Try telling a six year old). Then I felt it. The hand was on my bed, I could feel the way the fingers were stretching out then curling up as it dragged itself up the bed. I could hear the soft rasping as it made it’s way up the bed. I could hear it breathing (yeah yeah yeah, I was six FFS). It was on my chest and still moving and as it got to my throat I grabbed it and bit as hard as I could. No, I didn’t sever a finger or anything, what I did though was savage the bastard. I ground my sharp little teeth into that hand and worried it like a towny dog on a sheep. The unearthly screams that came out if it were, well, unearthly. That was when I realised maybe it wasn’t a disembodied hand. It took three rolls of sticking plaster and six weeks before the cuts and infections healed properly.
And that, dear readers, is why my brother still insists it’s thanks to me he’s an ambidextrous wanker.
*POP*
(Fri 24th Jul 2009, 13:32, More)
» Mobile phone disasters
Hello? Sarah?
Back when mobiles were going through the smaller is better stage we were out for a post work bender with a few other wild young things (worked hard and played hard working for a large IT consultancy). One of the girls got her phone out and fiddled about with it for a bit before asking if she could borrow someone else’s to make an urgent call. She disappeared outside for a while and returned to her seat. For an hour or so after that she kept picking her own phone up , pressing a few buttons and putting it back down.
Eventually the lad whose phone she had borrowed asked for it back and she asked if she could make just one more phone call and disappeared again. She returned and gave the phone back with many thanks and a double whisky (single malt of course). A short while later his phone rang and he left the pub to take the call. At this point Sarah erupted in gales of laughter and said we should all watch Iain’s face as he came back. We watched as he returned and sure enough he had a rather perplexed look .
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Can you smell something funny on my phone?”
At this point Sarah could hold herself back no longer and with ill-concealed glee informed Iain that she had switched his phone to silent, put it down her knickers and speed dialled the number all night. She’d had a whale of a time, wiped the stickiness off and left the smell for him. As a small revenge he rang her at 2:30am and told her he was having a really good wank sniffing his phone. I love working with perves.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 13:53, More)
Hello? Sarah?
Back when mobiles were going through the smaller is better stage we were out for a post work bender with a few other wild young things (worked hard and played hard working for a large IT consultancy). One of the girls got her phone out and fiddled about with it for a bit before asking if she could borrow someone else’s to make an urgent call. She disappeared outside for a while and returned to her seat. For an hour or so after that she kept picking her own phone up , pressing a few buttons and putting it back down.
Eventually the lad whose phone she had borrowed asked for it back and she asked if she could make just one more phone call and disappeared again. She returned and gave the phone back with many thanks and a double whisky (single malt of course). A short while later his phone rang and he left the pub to take the call. At this point Sarah erupted in gales of laughter and said we should all watch Iain’s face as he came back. We watched as he returned and sure enough he had a rather perplexed look .
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Can you smell something funny on my phone?”
At this point Sarah could hold herself back no longer and with ill-concealed glee informed Iain that she had switched his phone to silent, put it down her knickers and speed dialled the number all night. She’d had a whale of a time, wiped the stickiness off and left the smell for him. As a small revenge he rang her at 2:30am and told her he was having a really good wank sniffing his phone. I love working with perves.
(Thu 30th Jul 2009, 13:53, More)
» Food sex
Banana Sunday.
When I was younger I had a girlfriend. A real one. All for me. We shall call such a time BI (Before Internet) as we all know anyone on here is a fat internetty geek. Now this young “lady” was absolute filth and up for virtually anything, unfortunately her idea of a threesome differed somewhat from mine and as a result we couldn’t agree on a way forward until one weekend when we were staying over at my dad’s place (I lived with Mum and he was away with his girlfriend). Poking around for something to eat I came across a bunch of bananas. These must have been S & M bananas because they weren’t just any bananas, oh no. They were fucking huge quite straight and even when peeled could have satisfied quite a cavernous clopper. I saw the lustlights go on in little miss filthytime’s eyes and knew what was coming.
“You could shove one of them up my snatch and give me a good brown ramming at the same time. That way I could pretend I was getting two blokes and you wouldn’t go off it cos your mates balls are banging against yours.” However, all was not so simple. She didn’t fancy the mess or the almighty douching needed to get the mashed up banana out of her coochie so insisted we chill it a bit and after peeling it put it in a lucky bag. So off we go and a smashing time was had by both. I gave her back doors a good kicking and she frigged herself rotten with the fruity fuckable. But the story doesn’t end there.
A couple of weeks later my Dad took me aside while we were visiting and severely castigated me.
“You filthy little bugger !” He said.
“Fuck! How did he find that out? I washed the sheets!” thought I.
Seeing the look on my face he explained further.
“If you’re going to introduce your young ladies to such practices, at least throw the thing out afterwards. I found a jonny full of brown squishy stuff and it burst as I picked it up. Thank Christ it was banana and not what I thought. Scruffy bastard.” He banned me from unsupervised stopovers for 3 months. I was 19.
(Thu 6th Aug 2009, 18:17, More)
Banana Sunday.
When I was younger I had a girlfriend. A real one. All for me. We shall call such a time BI (Before Internet) as we all know anyone on here is a fat internetty geek. Now this young “lady” was absolute filth and up for virtually anything, unfortunately her idea of a threesome differed somewhat from mine and as a result we couldn’t agree on a way forward until one weekend when we were staying over at my dad’s place (I lived with Mum and he was away with his girlfriend). Poking around for something to eat I came across a bunch of bananas. These must have been S & M bananas because they weren’t just any bananas, oh no. They were fucking huge quite straight and even when peeled could have satisfied quite a cavernous clopper. I saw the lustlights go on in little miss filthytime’s eyes and knew what was coming.
“You could shove one of them up my snatch and give me a good brown ramming at the same time. That way I could pretend I was getting two blokes and you wouldn’t go off it cos your mates balls are banging against yours.” However, all was not so simple. She didn’t fancy the mess or the almighty douching needed to get the mashed up banana out of her coochie so insisted we chill it a bit and after peeling it put it in a lucky bag. So off we go and a smashing time was had by both. I gave her back doors a good kicking and she frigged herself rotten with the fruity fuckable. But the story doesn’t end there.
A couple of weeks later my Dad took me aside while we were visiting and severely castigated me.
“You filthy little bugger !” He said.
“Fuck! How did he find that out? I washed the sheets!” thought I.
Seeing the look on my face he explained further.
“If you’re going to introduce your young ladies to such practices, at least throw the thing out afterwards. I found a jonny full of brown squishy stuff and it burst as I picked it up. Thank Christ it was banana and not what I thought. Scruffy bastard.” He banned me from unsupervised stopovers for 3 months. I was 19.
(Thu 6th Aug 2009, 18:17, More)
» Vomit Pt2
Worst vomit, strangest sex.
The worst vomit and strangest sex of my life followed a drunken teenage party.
After sixth form ended there were a shitload of celebratory parties. One of the parties was particularly well attended as the parents had chipped in with about a hundred quids worth of booze and gone away for the weekend (luckily facebook etc was well in the future and selective invitations were made with the proviso that any unauthorised guests would be quickly chucked out along with the knacker who’d let on about the party). As I mentioned in a previous post my brother is a cunt. In this case it proved handy as he was invited along for his exceptional talent for effective violence, he was a bouncer.
On the night I was on a promise and so on my best behaviour. Unfortunately my brother wasn’t and nicked my willing partner (he later told me not only willing but very wet – she pissed on him but that’s another story). When I discovered the date had fucked off with him best behaviour closely followed sobriety out of the window and within about an hour I was unable to drink anymore snakebite due to fullness. At that point he proved his cuntiness even further by popping in and giving me a pint of what he later admitted was Underberg and Martini Rosso, along with the advice that it would settle my stomach and help me feel a bit better. Then I scored. She was in as much of a state as me and didn’t take much persuading into the master bedroom where we locked the door and suddenly all our clothes just fell off. We got down to some rather serious sexytime the way that only curious, horny teenagers can. Back then I was pretty unsophisticated when it came to things sexual so when she suggested we have go at the old mutually satisfying oral sex I could well have believed it was Christmas. And that’s where it started to go wrong.
She may not have been well-practised but fucking hell it was like sticking my jollywand in a wet and animated hoover. It was wonderful. Unfortunately in her enthusiasm (and drunkenness) she was paying little attention to how far she was taking Mini-Donkey and promptly tested her gag reflex. It worked to perfection and she did the technicolour yawn all over my cock. Worse still some of the spew managed to be projected right onto my jap’s eye and it stung like fuck. I sat straight up and was going to yell when I caught a whiff of the vomit. Now when it comes to the vomit club I’ve always been a joiner and the result was a projectile stream full of chunks and martini (remember the best behaviour? It had consisted of lurking near the buffet table and picking instead of swilling. There was a LOT of chunk). I immediately started to apologise when she said “Look, we’ve made a right fucking mess of the bed, we’re both covered in it, let’s fuck anyway.” So we did. Rolling around in the slop and chunks like a couple of pervy pornstars. We did strip the bed afterwards and chuck the covers in the bath though. We weren’t complete fucking heathens.
(Thu 7th Jan 2010, 23:22, More)
Worst vomit, strangest sex.
The worst vomit and strangest sex of my life followed a drunken teenage party.
After sixth form ended there were a shitload of celebratory parties. One of the parties was particularly well attended as the parents had chipped in with about a hundred quids worth of booze and gone away for the weekend (luckily facebook etc was well in the future and selective invitations were made with the proviso that any unauthorised guests would be quickly chucked out along with the knacker who’d let on about the party). As I mentioned in a previous post my brother is a cunt. In this case it proved handy as he was invited along for his exceptional talent for effective violence, he was a bouncer.
On the night I was on a promise and so on my best behaviour. Unfortunately my brother wasn’t and nicked my willing partner (he later told me not only willing but very wet – she pissed on him but that’s another story). When I discovered the date had fucked off with him best behaviour closely followed sobriety out of the window and within about an hour I was unable to drink anymore snakebite due to fullness. At that point he proved his cuntiness even further by popping in and giving me a pint of what he later admitted was Underberg and Martini Rosso, along with the advice that it would settle my stomach and help me feel a bit better. Then I scored. She was in as much of a state as me and didn’t take much persuading into the master bedroom where we locked the door and suddenly all our clothes just fell off. We got down to some rather serious sexytime the way that only curious, horny teenagers can. Back then I was pretty unsophisticated when it came to things sexual so when she suggested we have go at the old mutually satisfying oral sex I could well have believed it was Christmas. And that’s where it started to go wrong.
She may not have been well-practised but fucking hell it was like sticking my jollywand in a wet and animated hoover. It was wonderful. Unfortunately in her enthusiasm (and drunkenness) she was paying little attention to how far she was taking Mini-Donkey and promptly tested her gag reflex. It worked to perfection and she did the technicolour yawn all over my cock. Worse still some of the spew managed to be projected right onto my jap’s eye and it stung like fuck. I sat straight up and was going to yell when I caught a whiff of the vomit. Now when it comes to the vomit club I’ve always been a joiner and the result was a projectile stream full of chunks and martini (remember the best behaviour? It had consisted of lurking near the buffet table and picking instead of swilling. There was a LOT of chunk). I immediately started to apologise when she said “Look, we’ve made a right fucking mess of the bed, we’re both covered in it, let’s fuck anyway.” So we did. Rolling around in the slop and chunks like a couple of pervy pornstars. We did strip the bed afterwards and chuck the covers in the bath though. We weren’t complete fucking heathens.
(Thu 7th Jan 2010, 23:22, More)
» Cars
The Black Nads of Purgatory.
This could be the start of a common theme. As I’ve said before my brother is a cunt. But he is also a really stupid cunt. He rarely thinks things through and this is one of those tales.
Not so long ago I became an uncle for the fourth time, Four of the little snot-goblins and all belonging to Bruv. Luckily his wife is a bit more sensible than him and figured out what was causing it, so off he goes for the old two bricks and an aspirin (NHS job). Fortunately for him the surgeon didn’t have my sense of humour and he got a couple of needles in his nutsack, apparently it REALLY HURT. Good I thought, makes up for the time you covered me in cowshit. So, minor surgery over he goes to the car park and gets ready to go home. Yup. Gets ready. Puts on leathers. Puts on helmet. Not only did he have a helmet he was one. He’d gone to the surgery on his motorbike. A homeward journey of 48 miles faced him.
Swallowing the couple of paracetamol the nurse had given him, he set off, complete with sinking guts and a rising nausea. Now other than being a wanker and a cunt, he is actually pretty good on a motorbike. He realised that the pain wasn’t too bad so dropped a cog and put some speed on. He was doing about 85 or 90 when he heard the siren and spotted the lights. Pulling over he prepared for the worst. The police biker who had pulled him took his gloves off and walked over, getting his notepad (or whatever it is they use) out on the way.
“Well, Foggy, in a hurry?” Oh no, he’d gotten a sarky bastard. By this time the local and the paracetamol were both wearing off and things were getting a bit achey. So, squirming like a selotaped hamster, he explained things while wincing and constantly adjusting his nads. At this point the God of the Nutless smiled on him. “It’s alright son,” said the copper “I remember what it’s like. Follow me and we’ll have you home in a jiffy.”
So he was escorted with blues and twos all the way to his front door. Unfortunately the ride home had taken it’s toll and he had bollocks like black grapefruit for a fortnight.
My brother, the stupid, lucky cunt.
(Sun 25th Apr 2010, 19:50, More)
The Black Nads of Purgatory.
This could be the start of a common theme. As I’ve said before my brother is a cunt. But he is also a really stupid cunt. He rarely thinks things through and this is one of those tales.
Not so long ago I became an uncle for the fourth time, Four of the little snot-goblins and all belonging to Bruv. Luckily his wife is a bit more sensible than him and figured out what was causing it, so off he goes for the old two bricks and an aspirin (NHS job). Fortunately for him the surgeon didn’t have my sense of humour and he got a couple of needles in his nutsack, apparently it REALLY HURT. Good I thought, makes up for the time you covered me in cowshit. So, minor surgery over he goes to the car park and gets ready to go home. Yup. Gets ready. Puts on leathers. Puts on helmet. Not only did he have a helmet he was one. He’d gone to the surgery on his motorbike. A homeward journey of 48 miles faced him.
Swallowing the couple of paracetamol the nurse had given him, he set off, complete with sinking guts and a rising nausea. Now other than being a wanker and a cunt, he is actually pretty good on a motorbike. He realised that the pain wasn’t too bad so dropped a cog and put some speed on. He was doing about 85 or 90 when he heard the siren and spotted the lights. Pulling over he prepared for the worst. The police biker who had pulled him took his gloves off and walked over, getting his notepad (or whatever it is they use) out on the way.
“Well, Foggy, in a hurry?” Oh no, he’d gotten a sarky bastard. By this time the local and the paracetamol were both wearing off and things were getting a bit achey. So, squirming like a selotaped hamster, he explained things while wincing and constantly adjusting his nads. At this point the God of the Nutless smiled on him. “It’s alright son,” said the copper “I remember what it’s like. Follow me and we’ll have you home in a jiffy.”
So he was escorted with blues and twos all the way to his front door. Unfortunately the ride home had taken it’s toll and he had bollocks like black grapefruit for a fortnight.
My brother, the stupid, lucky cunt.
(Sun 25th Apr 2010, 19:50, More)