Booze (or not)
Working in a pub you meet lots of nice people, unfortunately you also have to suffer more than your fair share of cockends.

Now, I have a large number of footy style knobbers who drink in my establishment and one week a particularly loud, mono-brain celled chap fucked me off and I vowed to get him back. The next week he struts in, not bothering to appologise for last weeks penistry and orders a bottle of Becks, and so it starts. I take an ice cold bottle out of the fridge, open it and plonk it in front of him.

Now he proceeds to drink another 8 odd bottles, getting louder and more obnoxious with each one.

Once again he's getting on my nerves. His loud and grating voice letting everyone in the postcode know his small and worthless opinion on every subject. So, I go over to tell him to wind his neck in and stop being so obnoxious.

"Well, you shouldn't have served me so much beer," he tells me. To which, with a big shit eating grin, I can only reply by picking up one of his empty bottles off the table and pointing at it. "It's no alcohol Becks, you idiot. That's all I've been serving you today".

His mates start pissing themselves and taking the piss out of their "friend", who it transpires has managed to get "drunk" of 9 bottles of 0.05% lager. To make matters even better, he ran out of money, couldn't afford to buy another drink, his mates wouldn't buy him one and he got the appropriate response from me when he asked for a tab.

Yes, sometimes I like the power I have in my job.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:41, 18 replies)

Nobody Steals My Lunch




Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 0:30, 9 replies)

Not technically sabotage...
...but it could have been done on purpose. I'd arranged to meet a friend at Victoria station, and as I'm waiting I happen to notice possibly the world's worst transvestite sitting down to eat outside Burger King. Honestly, he had a beard. I decided not to snigger because he was around 9 feet tall and he could probably beat me to a pulp whilst still in stilettos.

Anyway, much like myself he performed "burger surgery" before he ate (opening it up and removing the tomatoes and anything else that may wind up down the front of your shirt/dress). As he opened it up a pigeon swooped in from nowhere and shat all over his exposed burger.

I have honestly never seen anyone look so sad as that 9 foot man-lady did as he stared at his shit-covered burger.
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:16, 12 replies)

A little bit different this one
Let me introduce you to two of my one-time uni flatmates, in an abominable student house in a tumbledown suburb of Coventry.

First up, Dave. Dave was a very nice, very smart guy, but had serious issues connecting with reality. Apropos of nothing, he was a physics student. Dave was officially Coventry's second-best chess player (yes, there is a league of such things apparently), spectacularly disorganised and geekier that geek.

Oddly enough, the girls weren't exactly tripping over each other in a mad rush to get into his pants.

Second, may I introduce Joey. Joey fitted the stereotype of the pyromaniac chemistry student perfectly, and had to be banned from bringing his home-made napalm (styrofoam peanuts dissolved in petrol, if anyone's interested) into the flat. Joey also played chess as it happened, but what he lacked in skill he would make up for in attempting to psyche his opponent out by (amongst other things) painting his fingernails during his opponent's turn or wearing a chef's hat throughout the game, whilst remaining crosseyed and giggling to himself. Suffice it to say that Joey had something of a warped and evil sense of humour.

Dave, in a moment of uncharacteristic lucidity, had noticed that there were a large number of single, attractive girls in the Vegetarian Society, who were probably not interested in the usual macho men and might go instead for a geeky, slightly dazed-looking physicist/chess nerd. Only trouble was, of course, that Dave was not even vaguely a vegetarian, loving a good chicken curry as much as the rest of us.

Nonetheless, Dave joined the Veggie Society (I'm guessing they didn't search his pockets for meat products at the sign-up stall - Christ alone knows what they would have found) and, to everyone's shock, got to know one of the girls quite well.

Joey, meanwhile, was participating in another one of his "experiments". Following the outstanding success of his "shave his beard into a Hitler moustache and walk around campus with a severe side parting" experiment (he managed 3 hours before someone said something), his latest project was to build a candle out of a jar, a piece of string, and an ample supply of burger and sausage fat obtained from the pan under our grill.

Joey's experiment was a success, the candle worked very well. However, the candle also emitted a stench of sausages and general sliminess that caused us, once again, to ban Joey from lighting the damn thing in the house.

One day, word got round that Dave had reached first base with this girl and was bringing her back to the flat that evening. Joey, ever the crusader for truth and warrior against hypocrisy (that's what he said, anyway), took the sausage candle, lit it, and hid it in Dave's cupboard.

The smell of sausages was so strong we could smell it outside the front door. Dave and the girl appeared, went into Dave's bedroom, and we heard raised voices. The girl left after about three minutes, and we never saw her again. Dave didn't actually seem too upset. Maybe this happened to him a lot. Maybe he hadn't even noticed (it certainly found him almost a week to discover the melted, reeking remains of the candle).

So yes, food sabotage. But sometimes it's not the food you sabotage.
(Axeman Jim, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:41, 3 replies)

Pan sabotage
Not strictly food but an item for preparing food.

My dad was a bit of a "see you next Tuesday". I remember one year as a kid he asked my mother what she wanted for her birthday. She jokingly said he might as well get her a new pan so she can cook his pasta in it (as women do).

He took her to her word (as men do) and on the morning of her birthday he presented a pan shaped present wrapped in happy birthday paper (and a thoughtful bow) and all hell broke loose.

He got her something else pretty sharpish but it was never forgotten (you know women and that)

Years later it turned out he hadn't just bought her a new pan after all, he had bought her a set of pans. Six in total, each slightly smaller than the next - they stacked into each other.

Eventually she calmed down and the time came for us to chuck the old pan (loose handle) and use "The new pan" instead.

Dad took great pride in saying it was a useful present after all and despatched the old one with the wonky handle to the bin. I think she might have taken a swing at him with it at some time during the proceedings.

Of course after two weeks "the new pan" was substituted (in the dead of night) for the next size down by my dad who had hidden the set in the loft.

Two more weeks later and the next smallest pan was taken down from the loft and replaced the previous. 3 months later she was down to the milk pan, insisting all along that it must be the heat shrinking the metal.

Of course this became a topic of intense discussion with everyone and anyone she knew even for years after. Quite frankly she's never been the same since (but that's men for you).
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:32, 6 replies)

When Gordon Ramsay ‘cum’ to dinner…

A while ago I used to work in a local restaurant that was struggling to make ends meet. I would wash dishes, chop carrots and occasionally knock up the odd starter or sweet etc when the poor chef was rushed off his rancid, overworked feet.

I was enthusiastic and ambitious, but lacking the ‘special something’ that separates the great culinary masters from...well…people like me. At the time I could knock up a mean tapioca pudding but little else...all I had was a dream...

Nonetheless, I was happy, and was bumbling through my daily duties one (particularly busy) day when my hero, the legendary Gordon Ramsay cockily strutted through the doors!

He was researching the place as a potential venue for his ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ programme and had popped by to check out our food and service etc before deciding whether or not to work his particular magic on the flagging business.

Well, as a budding cuisine-concocting connoisseur, meeting the prestigious GR in the flesh was like a dream come true for me, and I begged the head chef to let me cook the great man something…anything. I felt that it would be my ultimate ‘claim to fame’, and my life would therefore become complete.

With a wry smile the chef replied: “Alright then, you can do the starter. But don’t knack it up, or I’ll cut your bollocks off, you little shag-stain”.

You can imagine the orgasmic glee shuddering through my nadsack as I was given charge of banging together a prawn cocktail for the greatest and most famous chef in the world.

However, that unbridled joy soon turned to despair as I went out into the restaurant and, with arm trembling, reached out to shake his hand. “Mr Ramsay” I stammered, “I just want to say how privileged I am to meet you, and I will try my very best to make you a fine starter course of which I hope you will be proud”

“FUCKING FUCK YOU!” spat the scarred-chinned, Scottish-by-birth ball breaker. “I don’t give a fuck, and I don’t want to waste my fucking valuable time talking to a fucking little wanker like you, so FUCK RIGHT OFF!” He pushed away my outstretched hand and turned his head away in disgust.

So with my dreams dashed and my eyes filling up with tears, I ran back to the kitchen to prepare the ingredients for him. In my defence, it was only when I heard “...and hurry up with my fucking prawn cocktail, you fucking little cumsponge” yelled from the restaurant that something inside my head ‘snapped’.

‘Wanker’ eh?...‘Cumsponge’ is it?...’I’ll show him’, I mumbled to myself as I sneakily sloped off with his dish full of prawns into the pantry cupboard. I made sure I couldn't be interrupted before I unzipped my ridiculously patterned chef’s trollies and whopped my charlie out of my dunghampers.

Then, with my tongue poking out with concentration, I bashed my bulging bishop at a frantic pace, and it wasn’t long before oodles of salty electric rope splurged from my putrid purple pulsating prit-stick all over the prawns of the foul-mouthed arse-biscuit. I then zipped up, and mixed the still-warm junior-juice with a globule of salad cream, Worcester sauce and ketchup before taking it out and banging the dish down on his table.

“Enjoy” I sneered at him before striding back to the kitchen and emptying my locker - preparing for the inevitable sacking I would receive once my crime was discovered.

A few minutes later, I was going round the staff saying my goodbyes, when suddenly the kitchen double doors were kicked open – and there stood Ramsay.

He had a face like a smacked arse – then I realised he always looked like that.

I was expecting it to 'kick off' big style – but as he approached me he smiled broadly, shook my hand and complimented me! – He said that although the rest of the meal was an ‘utter sack of crap’, my starter was ‘divinely delicious!’ He added that it showed I had a ’fucking remarkable’ talent and a ‘very special fucking sauce’ (little did he know how 'spot on' he was). He advised the restaurant owner to build the entire business around my ‘gift’.

I was a success!

The restaurant owner was overjoyed. He immediately hoofed the old head chef out on his arse and offered me the top job…insisting that I treat every meal with the exact same level of ‘hard commitment’ that I had given to Gordon.

I realised I was only an average chef at best…so I knew that there was only one secret ingredient that made my cooking ‘special’ compared to everyone else’s.

Thusly, my career as a professional wanker was born.

I chucked my rocket-powered rice pudding with gusto over every single dish I prepared – eccentrically explaining away any stonk-on-related delays with "You can’t stifle my art with your gluttonous wanton impatience...philistines!"

Where I managed to summon up the superhuman shaft-shuffling energy time after time I’ll never know, but soon I understood that I would need additional ‘spermalicious' supplies…and every night, when the doors were locked after closing time, I got busy...

Through careful experimentation I discovered that I could control the level of potency, strength, and flavour of the ‘seminal semolina’ I produced. I mastered this simply by thinking about different things, and adopting different rhythmic grooves and speeds whilst pitilessly pummelling my pork sword.

For example, over my ‘Cream of button mushroom soup’ I would gently stroke my coughing custard cannon whilst fantasising about Barbara Cartland in a barbed wire thong; however if I wanted a full-on, extreme curry spice mixture I would tug hard and frantically whilst conjuring up images of Eva Longoria wearing nothing but instant whip and a gold ankle chain.

Every dish was gobbled down by the gorging, grateful customers at a veritable rate of knots. Soon my culinary masterpieces were the talk of the town and we were doing a roaring trade – but I was becoming increasingly aware of a fast approaching problem…

My ‘gunge tanks’ were running seriously low on jitler and my heavily bruised hog’s eye just couldn’t produce enough man-fat to cope with demand.

Every waking moment, my mind was occupied on obtaining as much splooge as I possibly could. After an evening of sweet lovin’, I would roll off my spent girlfriend before insisting that she squeeze her beefcurtains and strain every last drop of the precious man-muck from inside her choc-full clopper into a Tupperware container. Thankfully, she thought this was quite kinky, so didn’t ask any questions and was happy to oblige. She also kindly volunteered to go out and obtain additional samples of filthy fish juice for me to do with as I wished. Result!

As supplies grew ever shorter I spent days trawling the town looking for anything that could pass for baby paste. I remember not being able to mask my delight when I saw two Staffordshire bull terriers going at it like the clappers by a lamp-post; and I managed to crawl underneath them to collect the resulting splatter of dog yogurt with my trusty miniature thermos flask. Fortunately, it only required a modicum of testicular massage from me to make the male spurt, but unfortunately I was then noticed by the heat-ridden bitch ‘mid-hump’, and she proceeded to bite part of my nose off with some ferocity. I still managed to make it away with the precious bounty though, and it went straight into a Steak Diane sauce that very evening.

But it still wasn’t enough…I even volunteered to help the local farmer with menial tasks, and in my spare time I spent countless hours following the animals round with an oversized bucket, weapons grade safety goggles and a pair of ultra thick rubber gloves over my wanking spanners. Before long I had gallons of purest cock custard.

But as my talent (and ego) expanded, the demand became insatiable…and so did the pressure.

It should have been my finest hour when the judge from Michelin arrived to sample my famous 'Flayed Swordfish with Guava Millefeuille'…but no matter how hard I sorrowfully spanked my spluff-shooter, I remained completely cack out of tallywaggle torpedos. I was about to bleakly admit that the game was up.

Then…thinking fast, I remembered that I had one last sample in the fridge from my ‘Finest’ collection – The special test-tube where I would deposit my super-gloop after thinking about Girls Aloud whilst feverishly fwapping to ‘Caught in a Mosh’ by Anthrax.

I served the dish with a smile (and a limp), but I had nothing to worry about…the Michelin star was mine.

Yet as is so often the way, my success was short lived.

I must admit that it was quite a relief when the health inspector finally caught me…I was stood on a chair strangling my slackening spam javelin into a bowl of lobster bisque. Despite all I had done for him, the restaurant manager took no pity on me and sacked me on the spot…but the joke was on him, for within 2 months of me being given my marching orders, the restaurant closed down as their menu seemed to suddenly lose it’s ‘personal touch’ and the customers stayed away in droves.

As for me, I tried to cash in on my new found fame and invested all my money opening a swanky coffee shop in town. Attempting to eclipse the previous success in my own ‘unique’ way, I decided to substitute the coffee beans for little winnetts of dried rabbit turd (I thought if it caught on it would be easier to get a regular supply).

To my lasting regret, the market for coffee that tastes like shit had already been cornered by Starbucks and I was soon made bankrupt.

But, unlike my signature 'Bernaise sauce', I wasn't bitter, and nowadays life is much simpler. I currently work at the soup kitchens run by the local homeless charity...where nobody seems to give a flying toss what I do to the food. This has led to my losing the thrill of adding my special 'tang' to the punter's unsuspecting stomachs.

In fact, I’m already thinking of moving on and ‘experimenting’ again…maybe someday soon I can reclaim my former glories…

So you never know…the next 'chef' employed at your favourite pub / restaurant / works canteen…it could be me...if you’re lucky...;)


Bon appétit
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:32, 12 replies)

Contains food and sabotage - but - in a different way
I was with a girl for eight years. She meant the world to me and she made me the happiest man in the universe - well - that was until the day I found out she had been shagging her boss behind my back. I was devasted. Completely cut in half. Broken.

Fast forward two months, she goes off on holiday and I am in our house clearing the last of my stuff out. I was clearing under the bed I pulled out our box of erm "Toys" to get to box of junk.

I could physically hear my brain wurr into action.

Off I ran to the supermarket and purchased a packet of Scotch Bonnet chillies. These fuckers looked hot, very hot.

Once back home I covered each one in cling film and let them sweat in the sun for a few hours. I then cut them in half and made sure her rampant rabbit was given a liberal coating of pure fire. I let that coating dry and repeated, and repaeted and repeated. Each time the chillie fluid dried to an invisible layer of heat ray death.

One week later I had a phone call from the Ex. She was screaming and crying and swearing. It was safe to say she wasnt in a great mood.

"Whatevers the matter" I said (through laughter)
"AAAHHH MOOOTHHERR FUCKER IT BURNS" she poetically replied
"Oh dear...What burns"
"You mother fucker.....ahhhhhhhhh"
"sounds painful - I have to go now - good day" I laughed so hard I almost fainted

According to a friend - it took several baths and a yogurt douche to stop the flames - but - the bit that made the story for me was that she wasnt using it in a "self love" way. Her boss had used it on her. When she started screaming he thought she was cumming so pushed it in further and further.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 11:44, 22 replies)

Banana worm
You can poke dry spaghetti in to the bottom of an unpeeled banana so that it slides all the way up the inside. Leave it in the banana overnight, and the moisture turns the spaghetti soft-ish. Wait for your unsuspecting housemate/family member/local greedy glutton to start eating, and, wow! They think they've eaten part of some crazy ass tropical worm! Get it right and you can tell them it was a tape worm! Do it quick and you too can have a funny story to enter, but you may need to run fast when they find out....
( Jimbuktu See? Right here, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 23:15, 5 replies)

Anyone for tea?
I realise that reading this, coupled with my previous 'office fun' related post, may make me look a bit of a bastard.

Oh well...

One company I worked for, I worked closely with two other blokes - one of them was one of the nicest and most inofensive people you could hope to meet. Our working days were filled with the usual office humour and piss-taking, all very good natured and spread around us evenly.

Apart from the tea.

Cliffy, for that is one of his nicknames, was very polite - he found it nigh-impossible to say no to things. We used to take it in turns between us to use the little kitchen on our floor to get the drinks in. It was all free tea/coffee with all the sugar/milk/creamer/whatever supplied - plus a little fridge to keep cans of drink etc.

One day, Cliffy made a vague comment about how there was no sugar in his tea - but it was ok, he'd drink it anyways. He prefered it with one sugar, but he didn't mind drinking it however it came, thankyouverymuch.

It was like he had opened the gates of Gehenna...
From that day on, normally at least once a day, we would make sure that one of his teas was a 'special' one.
From memory he had:-

Black tea - no milk
Strong tea - 5 teabags and very little milk
Salty tea - salt instead of sugar
Cold tea - cold water
Coffee tea - tea with added spoonfulls of coffee
Fruit juice tea - fruit juice instead of water
Biscuit tea - tea with 3 digestives disolved in it
Butter tea - tea with butter smeared around the inside of the cup first
Marmite tea - a healthy dollop of marmite at the bottom of the cup
Vodka tea - a miniature bottle of vodka topped off with tea
Sugary tea - filled the cup with sugar and just barely topped it up with tea
Raisin tea - filled the cup with raisins and just barely topped it up with tea
Milk tea - filled the cup with milk and just barely topped it up with strong tea

and my personal favourites

Solid tea - tea with an entire packet of gelatin in it, which I left to set in the fridge overnight

Explosive tea - an lively little brew which used a cut-down polystyrene cup as a false bottom to the cup, with a tiny hole pierced in it. A normal cup of tea was poured into the cup, which contained baking soda underneath the false bottom. The tea was carefully and quickly carried to his desk, and just as he went to pick it up - litterally foamed all over the place.

To his credit, and my everlasting admiration, he drank each and every one of them - apart from the explosive tea. He even had two spoonfulls of the solid tea, before we let him off.
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:28, 4 replies)

Vegetarian Surprise
I'll skip the details of how it happened, except to say that this answers the question everyone's been asking me lately (i.e., "Why'd you break up with Rachel?"), but my annual "Thanksgiving for folks who can't or don't want to be with their families" dinner was invaded by vegetarians. Normally, I don't have a problem with other peoples' affectations, or at least it's completely tacit: they think I'm a brute, I think they're ponces, so we each do our own separate things and make snide remarks about each other afterward.

... the apotheosis of my relationship with humanity.

But it's completely egregious to show up at a dinner party, of all things, and announce your silly little lifestyle choice, then behave like a complete ass when you're not instantly accommodated. While the rest of us sat down to dinner, the vegetarians opted to stay in the living room polish off the zakuski, and engage in a loud conversation about anal electrocution and the horrors of veal. If anyone had seemed offended by Rachel's guests, I'd probably have put a stop to it, but the rest of them were my guests, who probably wouldn't have put down their forks even if a steer were slaughtered in the kitchen and butchered on the sideboard between courses.

That's why I call them my "friends"

After dinner, everyone regroups in the living room, and is sympathetically over-emphatic about how much they've enjoyed the evening. Things really begin to light up when someone asks about the white bean paté with sun-dried tomatoes that the vegetarian pair had completely devoured. "Those weren't tomatoes. It was bacon." The recipe, which I related with gusto, uses a full pound of it — the grease is used to flavor the dip, and the bacon is only partially cooked so it stays moist and chewy.

... and it gets better.

The various bowls and plates the vegetarians had emptied contained, among other things, onions sautéed in rendered duck fat, vegetables soaked in vinaigrette that was seasoned with pulverized anchovies, a tomato compote containing beef stock and, best of all, a lumpy soup made from goose blood and bone marrow. The vegetarians went green — and one of them puked a little bit, just enough to puff his cheeks, which he promptly swallowed, probably hoping that nobody would notice. But everyone did. When Peter pointed out that he'd swallowed meat twice, he went off like a geyser.

People cheered.

I was kept kind of busy with a couple of bath towels and a whole lot of lemon-scented Lysol, so I didn't notice when they left — but I'm pretty sure it was a hasty exit. Rachel went with them, and didn't come back until two days later to pick up her things. Monday at the office, everyone who'd attended tells me it was the best Thanksgiving they ever had.

... go figger.

Note: may not be my story
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:51, 12 replies)

School Childrens Flights
I used to work, as a Corporal in the Army, back in the 90's in an RAF base in Germany. Every school children’s holiday in England, would see a couple of flights full of Army brats, who had been carted off to boarding school in the UK, come for a holiday with their parents in Germany.

Imagine the intelligence level required to get into some of these infantry regiments, then imagine the type of women attracts to such foreheads, then imagine the offspring the produce.

Anyhow, the inbound flights were a piece of cake. Flight lands, kiddies run up to mummy and daddy and disappear, or they get on their respective coaches to far distant garrisons and are out of there, Simple.

The return flights are another matter however. Parents sick of the sight of the kids dump them at the airport hours before the plane and leave them with you as the baby sitter. And some of these kids are spoilt rotten. It was a real problem not to want to whack some of the little retards.

Anyhow, onto the food subject. There used to be a big bucket of boiled sweets, that we used to hand out to the littler kiddies, the 5 and 6 year olds, to calm them down, occupy them, and pump them up with sugar an hour before the flight, Let the RAF sort them out on the aircraft.

One of the Sergeants on the Det used to like to pilfer the bucket, having a sweet tooth. So we thought we'd use that to our advantage and have a laugh on him. Nipping into the NAAFI we bought 10 packets of Chocolate laxatives, about 6 bars per packets all silver foil wrapped, and pilled these little chocolate bars on top of the sweetie pile. Low and behold the Sergeant snaffles a few of these bars and after half an hour disappears. Grins all around. Then we realise we have couple of dozen of these little bars left, so we hand them out to all the kids. All of them are gone with just 15 minutes before boarding time left.

We didn’t see the result, but imagine. An aircraft with 200 screaming school kids on-board, between 5 and 16 years old, with only 2 toilets for an hour long flight.

Our compatriots on the other end at Stanstead rang us up and told us of the reaction when the flight landed. On opening the aircraft door a solid wall of shit laden air caused a few airport workers to up chuck right there and then. Kids emerging with violent diarrhoea running out their jeans and shorts., and other kids covered in puke from the smell.

I think they put it down to food poisoning from sandwiches sold in the NAFFI. We never did tell anyone the real reason. :-)
( ratman, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 6:43, 11 replies)

I have no idea why I'm making this one public.
I fucking love queefs. I think they are absolutely brilliant and hilarious and the best things in the world. So imagine my joy when I started dating a girl who could queef on command!

So one day she's telling me about how she can do this, and actually demonstrates how she can draw air into her thingywotsit. Seriously, it looked like a gummy old man trying to whistle.

I then happen to notice an untouched glass full of coke on her bedside table with a straw in it.

...well, I'd be crazy not to suggest it wouldn't I?

And so it came to pass that I am lying collapsed on the floor, having the mother of all asthma attacks from laughing, almost literally, my guts out as this amazing young lady blows bubbles in the coke using her ladybits.

And after? She gave it to her sister, and apologised that she'd already sipped the straw. Her sister told her off for leaving it "slobbery".

Not sure how long this will stay up until I feel icky and delete it...
(GONEism, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 22:45, 6 replies)

Mrs Thatcher
I rubbed my cock on Mrs T's new spectacles, which I had just made. Not food or tea, but I just need to tell everyone.
My life-long socialist Father cried with pride when I told him.

She wore them for years too
(BigAndyBee, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:49, 5 replies)

A couple of years ago
I was living abroad and working in a restaurant in between copious amounts of casual sex with drunken scrubbers on hen nights and a large amount of heavy drinking and recreational drug abuse.

This one week there was this Scottish couple that came in and I have never come across such a pair of obnoxious cunts. They seemed to think that the world owed them everything. They were rude to every member of staff and whinged constantly about their food and how long it took. Basically, utter, utter twats.

I spotted them in the resort the next day, they were obviously on holiday with their kids and a bunch of their friends.

Later in the week them and their friends returned to the restaurant and I just knew I was going to have to do something to cheer myself up after fixed grinning at them and fawning over their every whim.

So I waited until they were tucking into their starters and sneaked out of the restaurant and down the street and bit to where I had noticed they were staying.

One of the windows of the apartment was open, so I sneaked in, strangled their eldest daughter, took the corpse back to the kitchen and minced the little fucker into their tapas.

The whole incident kind of got out of hand once the press got involved. Still, I managed to get rid of the remains without anyone noticing.
(Bazongaloid, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 19:13, 6 replies)

When my grandad was still alive
mum was his primary caregiver although she was working full time.
He had bone cancer and was in a lot of pain in his last year, to the extent that he'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

So, mum did what all good children do.

She put weed in his food a couple of times a week - pain reduced and grandad got a good nights sleep.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:54, 9 replies)

Military College
Sorry for, once again, drawing on my years of suffering at a Southern *(US) Military College, but frankly, this is a PERFECT QOTW!

So, as a Freshman/Underclassman at a University which PRIDES itself on the "Fourth Class System" (beating up Freshman/Knobs in order to create the 'Whole Man' that the college claimed to create), there comes a point where a young man reaches his breaking point.

I reached mine just shortly after returning from Christmas Break. South Carolina is relatively 'cool' in the winter. Not frigid like Alaska or Boston, but cold enough that we tended to wear our corduroy robes to the bathroom when we had already shed the uniform of the day. We also typically wore 'shower shoes' or 'flip flops' as the civilians call them.

So, after having endured 4 months of Upperclassmen overseeing us opening our 'care packages' from home and helping themselves, I and several of my classmates had had enough. We devised a plan, which not entirely 'unique' was, sadly, unique enough for the Upperclassmen in our company to fall for:

We baked Brownies with a CONSIDERABLE amount of laxative in them. (in case you lot know the brand, it was Ex-Lax)

For those of you 'well read' you may well have read the book "The Lords of Discipline." This was a novel written about MY college...in fact, it was 'suggested reading' for ANY cadet planning on metriculating at this fine institution. So, the story I am about to relate, is, sadly, not 'unique' but IS unique to MY experience.

Upperclassmen, despite their 'advanced years' are NOT particularly bright. And having baked the brownies with enough laxative to make an elephant on a diet of cheese and rice run to the gentleman's room, and THEN, sending them through the MAIL, from the very same city in which the college in question was located made ZERO difference.

We shipped them to a classmate. And he made a big 'to do' about bringing them into the Battalion, where we all lived. Upperclassmen came out of the woodwork to inspect said package and pilfer more than one brownie. Fortunately, we had the foresight to bake enough for about 50 cadets. We even saw to it to include a hand written note saying "We baked enough for your classmates, so make sure you share."

The upperclassmen enjoyed the brownies. It was almost too laughable to report. They gobbled them down as if we were in a combat zone and those were the LAST brownies they would ever eat.

About an hour and a half later, we heard the doors in the Battalion opening and slamming shut as SEVERAL of the supposedly 'more intelligent' Upperclassmen made the mad dash to the bathroom.

However, they didn't realize, us Freshman had taken Herculean steps to make sure their evening was particularly memorable:

In the bathrooms (it was an all-male college) we had taken 'Heel and Sole dye' (a black liquid we used to dye the heels and soles of our shoes to make them VERY black and 'extra' shiney) and colored the toilet seats. We had also added a healthy coating of Saran Wrap or "Cling Film" over the toilets themselves. Then, we un-wound the light bulbs so they wouldn't light up the area in question. (we were devious AND well-read little bastards)

The resulting insanity left several supposedly 'more intelligent' upperclassmen with PITCH BLack arses AND brown stains along their thighs/robes.

I paid for that...as did SEVERAL of my classmates (all of them in fact) but you know what? I would GLADLY do it again with the threat of the resulting beatings as a warning. Those bastards DESERVED trying to take a shit, having the liquid result splattering ALL over their 'kit' and leaving the restroom with a LARGE black circle on their arses.

I do NOT apologize!

Sic Semper Tyrranis!

Citadel
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 8:58, 11 replies)

I've never sabotaged anyone's food.
And never will.
( Spider Fucking Riviera got stiches for a knife wound for the first time, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 23:46, 6 replies)

Jolene
Just a quick one.

There is always one idiot in the office that brings their own coffee to drink. Well ‘Jolene’ was that lady. She had slighted me over some bizarre mix up with an invoice, so quick as a flash (over a number of weeks) me and some lads from work started to substitute her special la-di-da coffee with de-caffeinated coffee.

On the final Friday of our plan (4 weeks later) we re-substituted her original coffee and put a whole ground up pack of pro-plus in the sugar (of which she had her normal 6 spoons).

By 10:30am the office manager had to ask her to go home because she was furiously dusting everyone’s monitor singing Journey and refusing to stop.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:53, 3 replies)

"of course it's Linda McCartney..."
I'm not a vegetarian - let's just make that clear. I have canine teeth and, given that we don't have a second stomach required for chewing the cud, I am firmly in the "say yes to meat" camp.

However, I have known a few vegetarians in my time and most are pretty laid back - they don't make a show of preaching the PETA meat-is-murder-milk-is-poison nonsense and, aside from being a bit pasty looking, they are sound people. However, just as there is always one bad apple in any barrel, there is always one militant Veggie that will ruin a nice evening to claim the Guardian-reading moral high ground.

Well one such numpty turned up at a barbecue I was holding. He wasn't invited, but he was the friend of my wife's friend and I didn't mind. Right up until we had the whole "You must use a separate grill for my food because I don't want it tainted with dead carcass" lecture.

Now, I am a firm believer in the idea that if, out of a desire to be a good host, I am supposed to provide a veggie with a non-meat meal, it is only right that they should return the favour if I eat at their place, or at least they should be pleasant to the person who is putting them up and feeding them. But no, this emaciated ponce was doing his best to ruin the party and make 15 other guest feel uncomfortable by ranting about the evils of the Ribeye steaks that were sizzling on the grill. But the most vengeance went to the burgers - he made up all sorts of crap about how they were mainly filler, rat and hoof (despite my wife and I making them from home-minced steak that day) and generally getting up my nose. So, after drinking four of my beers he presents me with a box of Linda McCartney/Quorn FakeBurgers and his pompous instructions on how to cook them.

On his departure to the lounge (presumably to harrass the other guests), I threw them in the bin, cooked him two burgers well done, put them in buns, with cheese and sauce and handed them over. He scarfed the lot, whilst saying how nice they were and how we should all try these veggie burgers as we wouldn't miss meat. Meanwhile, I was curled up on my kness on the patio crying with laughter. Along with the three other vegetarians at the party, who were horrified by his behaviour.

I'm a bad, bad man...
(Chad, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:07, 13 replies)

I'll remind her of this as I finally throttle her....
Sort of the other way around. Ish.

Back in the ultra-carnivore hunter-gatherer days, come the end of the season I would have a fair selection of God's Creatures nestling in my freezer, and I would hold a mass scoffing session for my nearest and dearest chums to clear it out.

There could be pheasant, partridge, venison, bunny wabbit, pigeon, trespassers, you name it and it was lurking in the icy embrace, sometimes looking rather surprised. Anyway, when you have assorted portions of cute lickle animals, the easiest way to clear the decks is with the famous game casserole.

Now to do this properly, each ingredient has to be treated differently, as they all have different cooking characteristics. Some need marinading in good red wine with juniper berries and peppercorns, some lightly browned in olive oil with a smidge of garlic, some just need a quick rub of sea salt and a light touch of dried herbs to be all ready.

The seasonings must be assembled in their savoury ranks, awaiting their turn in the masterwork. Fresh herbs, exotic spices, pungent and nose-tickling ingredients by the dozen, lovingly collected, and each with it's own special role to play. A bottle of the finest wine was decanted to breath the air, a bottle of Chateau Special Offer was opened to keep the cook interested, and a can of posh catfood to keep the hairy scavengers busy gobbling away at their end of the kitchen. Planning, see?

And the stock. Aah, the stock. The crucial element, where flavours develop over the long, cool cooking process, where the consistency thickens and concentrated the savour,aroma and all-round 'fuck-me-that's-good'ness.

A previous meal had involved a juicy, tender leg of venison, lovingly removed from an unexpectedly deceased Muntjac Deer (unexpected from his point of view, that is). The bone, filled with rich, savoury marrow was reserved as the base for the stock of emperors. A handful of fresh bayleaves, bouquet garni, redcurrants, juniper berries, and other things to esoteric to mention splashed merrily into the pot. Flavoursome veggies, fine full-bodied wine, organic garlic, LBV port to name but a few joined them. And then it was consigned to the flames, for many hours. Cooked, reduced, strained through muslin, re-vitalised with more liquid, reduced again until we had a stock so good that a Michelin Inspector would have taken it home and gone to bed with it. Perfection.
Just let it cool off while I have a refreshing flagon or two, and then it's cooking time. Rubbing my hands with glee, muttering 'this is going to be fan-bloody-tastic', I retired to take the weight off my plates for a few well deserved minutes, before resuming cooking for ten hungry bods.

And then She happened. She who must be ignored, the Domestic Obergruppenfuhrer, the Boss, the Light of My Life.

She decided to help.

Said help involved doing the washing up, so I would have lots of uncluttered space to complete the culinary miracle, while she laid the table, re-decorated the house, laid a tiled floor and all the other little things that are apparently essential when receiving guests into one's abode.

I ambled back into the kitchen, to be greeted by everything clean and shiny, all the tools racked and gleaming, and all the pans clean and......

Wait one second.

ALL the pans clean and shiny?

"WHERE is the stock?"

"You mean that dirty water........."

Steely eyed, I maintained my semi-psychotic, verging on hysterical gaze, as with one hand I reached out for the bottle, and took a steadying slurp. *Gak* Fuck, wine vinegar. This time I looked, and managed to get soothing alcohol aboard.

"That DIRTY WATER, dear was the stock that I have been preparing for, for AAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH" I Arrrrrrgghed.

My gaze now flickered between my dear, rather worried wife, the handy knife/dismembering tool rack, and the fucking stock cubes.

Stock cubes.

*Weeps*



I no longer kill the Bambis, so she missed out on the one and only, never to be repeated opportunity.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 14:31, 17 replies)

The Christian Union
During my brief flirtation with Christianity at university (her name was Wendy and she had a heavenly rack), I occasionally visited the Christian Union for one of their non-alcoholic soirees. On one such evening, I was put in charge of the catering and decided to have a bit of fun.

Soft drinks were the only kind available: orange squash, Vimto and diet Coke. But I had smuggled a milk bottle of alcohol from home. Not just any alcohol, but pure alcohol made from potatoes in a copper still by my Ukranian housemate. He'd put a homemade label on the bottle reading "Uwaga! Smierc" - or, "Attention! Death!" This was the brand name. I divided the whole bottle evenly between the soft drinks and retired to a safe distance.

Within about ten minutes, Theobald (the skeletal biology PhD) was humping the lectern and Deborah (the owlish treasurer) waa twirling her voluminous underpants about her head while flashing a (burning) bush of arboreal proportions to all assembled. After about half an hour, the homophobic accountancy student Gerald was vogueing to Belinda Carlisle with his shirt tied off to reveal his midriff.

So far so good, I thought. Then some arrogant tosser (Caleb - the Texan fruitcake) asked me for a milkshake. We didn't have any milk and I would have had to run to the campus supermarket to get some, but he insisted. So I asked myself what Jesus would have done. And the answer was: "Buy the fucking milk and then do a shit in it."

I handed the tall glass to Caleb, who immediately noticed the tapered end of my still-steaming log emerging from the milk. "What's that!?" he yelped.

"It's chocolate. From a tube," I said. "If it smells like last night's biryani, that's only because it's fair trade and made by Christan cocoa workers in Bethlehem."

That was all the promting he needed, and the turd slipped down his gullet without a protest. Never mind that he was later rushed to hospital with a serious bacterial infection and mild brain damage.

Later, I encouraged Wendy to suck 'condensed milk' through a girthy straw while wearing a blindfold. She said it tasted "a bit off", bless her.
(frankspencer, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:24, 3 replies)

Kaol and the tale of the Mouse Omelette
First of all, I'm a lovely person. I'm afraid, however, that we all do things from time to time that makes us seem like a cunt.
This is one of mine...

A couple of years ago, I was living with a fellow student called "Mike".
Now, Mike was a scummy bastard, there's no other way to describe it.

He took two showers that I'm aware of the whole year I was living with him.
He never seemed to wash his clothes.
He managed to get our house invaded by ants, which came through the door, up the stairs, past my room and into his.
His bedroom smelt foul. Fouler than a Musk Ox's ring-piece.

All of those things, however, I could deal with.

What I couldn't deal with was him stealing my food.
I was scraping money the whole time I was at uni, to the point that some weeks I'd be eating cous-cous and tinned tomatoes and not much else.
His parents were paying for everything for him, including a hundred pounds a week "going out" money...
So why the fuck did he have to keep stealing my food?

His worst habit was stealing left-overs. If I made a chilli, I'd make fucking loads of it, freeze it and then leave a portion to defrost in the fridge for the next day.
About half of the time my meal would "mysteriously vanish".
It was just the two of us in the house, and he'd deny it.

So one day I decided to get my own back.

I made two wonderful cheese, mushroom and bacon omelettes, ate one, and put the other into the fridge.

The next day it was gone.

What he'll never know is the glowing sense of satisfaction that he'd eaten an omelette made of dead baby mice.

You see, I had a snake. This snake ate baby mice, so I had a box in the freezer full of them.
Mouselings don't have any fur, so they're pink and look a lot like foetuses.

I took a large handful, removed and discarded the heads, chopped up the bodies into cubes and shallow-fried them.

So that's the story of how my dirty, thieving housemate ate dead mice.
( Cawl, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 9:38, 14 replies)

Unintentional sabotage
Whenever the subject of food or cooking comes up, my girlfriend always delights in recalling the same batch of stories to anyone and everyone who hasn't heard them before (and some who have), so I figure it's probably best that I compile them in written form in an attempt to over expose them until they lose all power. Much like the Moby album Play.

I'm not a fussy man when it comes to food or drink. Sure I can appreciate a well made meal or a fine wine, but as a speed-eating consumption monster whose digestion system often performs the task most people leave for the teeth, I can also happily eat food others would probably turn their nose up at. Tinned curry? Sign me up! Microwaved burgers? Let me at 'em! Four day old soup that gave me food poisoning so bad that I can no longer look at butternut squash the same way, I really should have suspected something from the smell when I microwaved it? Ding ding ding! So without further ado here are the albatrosses.

The curry

It was my second year at university, and my diet was unhealthily balanced towards slap-it-in-the-oven type meals. I had not bothered spending the time learning to cook properly and until the point where I had to cook something for my girlfriend it hadn't been a problem. I found myself to be a lenient judge of my culinary prowess. That was the night I discovered why people don't make minced beef kormas.

The garlic

It was Valentine's Day and I'd spent most of the day tidying the flat (fucking student housemates) for a great romantic evening with my girlfriend. I'd found some fancy asparagus related dish online and had bought every one of the composite ingredients to ensure it tasted fantastic. Not even skimping on the touch of whatever herb which I so inevitably didn't already own. I wanted to ensure the evening was a good one. A bottle of white wine beyond my budget was chilling in the fridge. Flowers and petals et al adorned the dining room. The Gotan Project's La Revancha del Tango set the aural ambience. Scented candles disguised the cocktail of odours an all male student flat creates. All that was left to do was to scrub myself up and get cooking, though I'd not left myself much time to do so. After a manic preparation following the cooking instructions to the letter, all was well and when my girlfriend arrived she was most impressed by the efforts I'd made. The ground work was done and now I could relax and enjoy my fine lady's company. Everything was going well, but as talked and enjoyed the wine, there was a bell ringing in my head that had bothered me whilst I was doing the cooking. Normally I'd have contacted someone to put my mind at rest, but I was rushed for time and couldn't contact my usual source (my girlfriend) as I wanted it all to be a surprise. Eventually I could wait no more and had to ask.

"Is a clove of garlic one of the little bits or the whole thing?"

Well, turns out it was just one of the little bits. Who'd have thought it? The big thing is called a bulb, which kind of makes sense when you consider the shape. Huh. To make matters worse, I'd found peeling the garlic and chopping it into pieces had taken so long, that I needed to take shortcuts to get the dish ready in time. The result of this was little bits of garlic skin and huge chunks of garlic floating in the cream sauce. We ate it anyway, my girlfriend probably out of sympathy for the efforts that I'd gone to and me because, well, see above.

The bolognese

I don't put the effort into cooking all that often so when I do, I see it as an excuse to get experimental. My girlfriend has gotten to the point where she fears leaving the room while cooking these days as often something has changed in the time when she's gone*. The most frequent addition to dishes tends to be wine, chili and/or tarragon. Mainly because I like all three, but anything in the cupboard is worth a try as long as it's not going to curdle.

The bolognese incident was a result of one of these experiments where I discovered that when you run out of onions, pickled onions are not an acceptable equivalent.



* I'd like to point out that this isn't some fifties, sexist relationship, I do my fair share of keeping the flat tidy and clean, particularly when it comes to living with a human hurricane.
( ma0sm, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 15:47, 6 replies)

One more from my waiting days...
We had this regular customer, a right fat bastard.

He would, seriously, eat everything on the menu.

He'd gorge himself silly.

He was rude and obnoxious.

A dirty, obnoxious, foul looking slob.

And his manners were appalling.

He'd spray food everywhere.

He'd end up with it in his moustache, down his front, in his lap.

The table was a disaster zone. Food everywhere.

He was an animal.


So, I can say, feeling entirely guilt free that he got everything he deserved...

...when I gave him that wafer thin mint.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:50, 7 replies)

I've just remembered another one...
A couple of mates of mine and my brother's decided it would be funny, while preparing a bowl of cereal for breakfast at another friends house, to lace it with some dry cat food.

It was utterly foul.

My brother - the victim of the prank - walked over to give the 'mates' a slap and subtly sneaked a peak at the ingredients, picked a chemical at random and casually said, "I hope it doesn't have DL-methionine in it! I'm REALLY allergic to that!"

'Mates' check out the ingredients list, start to look panicked, and let my brother know that yes, it does.

We left shortly after that.

Moler (one of the mates) phoned up later to make sure he was ok, we saw that it was him phoning and were in the car with our dad at the time. We quickly explained what had happened, gave the phone to my dad and told him to improvise.

He did a sterling job, telling Moler that we were on the way to the hospital because my brother was 'desperately ill'. He starts apologising to my dad, who says, "look James, I've not really got time to talk about this right now" and hangs up the phone. Well funny.

We later found out that Moler had thrown up shortly after the phone call through shear guilt. Oh how we lolled.
(MrKipling43, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:42, 3 replies)

The worst thing you can do to a person?
Last week, I returned home late from work to find that some motiveless maniac had raped and tortured my family with rusty razors before viciously slaughtering them with assorted gardening implements.

As I dropped to my knees to survey the atrocity around me I noticed that this vile, sadistic, soulless killer had left his blood-splattered wallet on the floor, which contained his driving licence, and therefore his full name and address.

I know I should have gone straight to the police, but I wasn't thinking rationally...and my mind was filled only with thoughts of purest revenge and hate.

So that very night, in the pitch blackness, I quietly broke into his house while he slept upstairs...and I'm afraid to say that in a fit of rage.....I went into his kitchen....and .......crushed all of his packets of crisps, whilst making it look like they were fine on the outside.

every.single.packet.

I then left, safe in the knowledge that for the forseeable future, every time he opened a packet he would be presented with nothing but a virtual wispy cloud of powdered crispy hideousness.


I think justice was done.




Before you all have a go at me...I know it was harsh and nobody deserves that...but like I said, I wasn't thinking rationally
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 17:30, 6 replies)

Poo. Lots and lots of poo...
For want of a better explanation, my circle of friends can be utter cunts at the best of times. Nothing horrific or painfully scarring, but just utter cunts for no other reason than it mostly amuses us.

With this out of the way, I bring you a story that is simply 'laxalicious'..... ahem....

My friend, who we shall call 'Adam', had met a girl whilst on holiday who was, to steal R. Jimlad's expression from last week, a bit of a butterface. Well a lot actually. Not only this, but she was fucking nauseating to try and hold a conversation with, as it invariably tended to revolve around her and how awesome she was. As well as this, she had previously shown she was nuts. She stole 2 bottles of Jack Daniels from the house before she last left 'for the road' as she later said in an email, called one of my friends a cunt in the pub and slapped him really fucking hard, because he knocked over a drink by accident into her handbag. Amongst other things she showed us she was a cunt and an oxygen thief.

All in all nobody really liked her at all, including Adam, who wold often complain about her, before giving in to his penis' demands and allowing her to stay over for a weekend.

Anyways, one weekend she was pencilled in the calender to make an appearance so my friends decided to hatch a plan to help out Adam with his lady troubles, and being the friends they are, help to diffuse the relationship in the best possible manner.

That's right, spike their food with a fuckload of laxatives. Somewhat lacking in the creativity department I know but absolutely certain to bring entertainment.

So the day comes and his housemate, Ryan cooks a big slap up curry for everyone in the house, and whilst dishing, it out laces the unlucky duo's plates with the offending material.

Little did we know, Ryan decided to put it in everything. in the curry, the rice, the beers, sprinkled on the popadums, probably even the serviettes and silverware if he knew how. He used one of those sheets of Senakot for two people. Unfortunately, only my friend Adam ate it, as she complained that 'it tastes off'. Damn. Oh well, still one left.

As the night rolls on, in the club Adam feels some funny rumblings, followed by a swift change in the colour of his complexion and a mad dash for the loos. This carried on all night, with Adam trying extremely hard not to look like he was regularly shitting himself, making excuses on the dancefloor etc.

The journey home was a bit of a giggle, as the drunken banter continued between a few of us, with Adam still trying desperately to look like he was enjoying himself. You know the look, nervous laughter every now and then with swift glances here and there looking for an escape route.

Back at the house, after more trips to the toilet, the couple decided to make a move for the privacy of the bedroom. I have to say, at this point the look on Adam's face was one of apprehension, to say the least. I'd say he was shitting himself but....

Anywho. After about half an hour, he's heard using the toilet again, and again, and again. Just when we think he's finally crapped his last, we hear the scream.

Oh yes. You see, instead of telling the girl that he wasn't in the best of shapes to be pumping her full of man batter, he decided to
get on with the job. This backfired greatly, literally even, when after a while of holding in what I can only imagine to be a bowel clenching vesuvius of an anal announcement, he could clench no longer and let out the offending air biscuit.

Followed by a fountain of shit.

Seriously, his bed looked like he'd fired a shitty hosepipe from one end to the other.

She cleaned herself and after calming down enough to pack her things, promptly fucked off at 3 in the morning to catch a coach home, no doubt dying inside a little each minute extra that she stayed in the house.

She text later the next day to say how they probably shouldn't see each other again...

To this day, he still blames it on dodgy chicken in the curry and I still fear for Ryan's legs if he ever finds out the truth.

Length? about 4 feet of poop.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:04, 6 replies)

The bad shrooms
Things would often go missing from the fridge in our dorms - mostly my stuff, as I actually cooked and therefore kept myself well stocked with essentials such as milk and veg etc. I'm also allergic to everything, so had goats milk instead of normal moo milk. It'd piss me off when this mysteriously dripped away over about a day, but there was little I could do about it, and it wasn't like I'd put much effort into actually producing it myself. No, what was annoying was when foods I'd prepared myself would get snaffled. It takes quite a little time to make a good mushroom sauce, and this would regularly go missing. I had an idea.

I've always been into mushrooms. Not the hallucinogenic ones, more the wild mushrooms which sprout from the most unexpected places almost overnight and taste a thousand times better than any of the watery white rubbish you get in the supermarkets. Whole armies of pale, ethereal umbrellas in the undergrowth. I would regularly go out in pick them from the parks ad footpaths, and my room was filled with strings of dried mushrooms hanging from the ceiling, turning gently in the draft from under the windowsill. On one particular mushroom-hunting journey, I came across a mushroom which would be instrumental to my revenge.

The common shaggy ink cap. They grow all over the place, and I'd found a large clump. Now if you look these up in a book, it may well tell you that they're edible. Another book will tell you that they're quite poisonous and you should avoid them. Others are more ambiguous - so what's going on?

The shaggy ink cap is actually delicious - it has a wonderfully rich, intense mushroom flavour and will almost melt into anything you make, turing it a lovely inky black colour if you use some of the older, larger fruits. However, if you ingest alcohol for anything up to THREE DAYS after eating the mushrooms, you will experience severe side-effects which can include nausea, vomiting and heart palpitations. Nasty. Of course, I don't really drink much at all (just not my thing, it's not a matter of principle) so I would be fine, but if anyone nicked it, well, let's just say that there was an entire wall built out of empty beer cans in the kitchen.

That evening was interesting.
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 23:32, 6 replies)

At uni
People kept eating my food, so I put some poison in it and four people in my halls of residence were found dead around the fridge next morning.

They didn't do that again.
(frankspencer, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:20, 4 replies)

In me dad's old workplace
..in one of his first jobs he worked in a steelworks doing odd jobs with other workers. Everyone had a good healthy sense of humour (ie screaming "BALDIE!!!!" through the tannoy system at the foreman etc) but there was one guy who was simply a bully. Twas the late 60's/early 70's so bullying was strife and not directly nipped in the bud by management as it would be today. This guy used to get upto varying things, one of which was to throw his weight about at the canteen. My dad and his mates would get their dinner and sit on a table. Bastard would walk in, shout "Oih, I sit there!" and literally swipe all the metal plates off the table onto the floor. They only let him get away with this twice.

Me dad and his mates thought "fuck this for a laugh" and sneaked into the canteen early. They organised with the staff a prank, as the staff there were tired of cleaning up the food that the bastard was swiping onto the floor too. Then they played the waiting game.

In walks everyone on their lunch breaks and the bastard is there. He spies my dad and his mates munching away at the same table as before, and the bastard sees red.
"I fucking told you guys, I SIT THERE."
"Do you now?" says me dad, looking all confused.
He pushes my dad out of the way and swipes at the metal plates as hard as he could. CRUNCH. One confused look on the bastard's face as none of the plates budged and one trip to the hospital to deal with a broken arm.

Conclusion? Don't fuck off people who can weld.

Tis a pearoast for teh comp
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:19, Reply)

Accidental sabotage
My wife and I were stuck in a tent on a campsite on a freezing cold night. I woke up in desparate need of a pee but there was no way I was getting out of my lovely warm sleeping bag so I reached down for the empty bottle of water and very slowly and carefully filled it again.

Next morning I left my wife asleep and went for a wander, only to return some time later to find her frantically fighting to get in to the car to get something to take away the taste of the full bottle of piss she'd just taken a swig from.

The rather obvious yellow liquid in the bottle was disguised by the light filtering through the fabric of our tent, which turned everything, erm, yellow. Oops.

She didn't talk to me for the rest of the day. Just as well, her breath was rank!
( SteamedCleaner, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:13, 1 reply)

Always trust Delia
Since I started my job in IT support, I've found myself becoming more and more...Manish. As the only girl in my team, I've found I can now hold my own in conversations abound porn, reflect on why Lewis Hamilton/Ronaldo/that hunky man in the perfume ad is an utter twat-head, and watch with apt attention as a rare specimen of woman wonders through the office.

Anyhoo.. I decided I needed to woman-the-f*ck-up, so randomly I made some super girly Nigella-esque cakes for the office - complete with pink icing and little silver balls for maximum clunge-clout.

I wanted to make them really fluffy so when I put the baking powder in I thought the more the better. Delia Smith said 1 tsp would be sufficient.. but I figured I would forsake the spoon and just shake a whole load in.. Baaaad idea.

Brought the really rather beautiful cakes in, and everybody stood in awed silence at the sheer beauty of my little flour (and butter and sugar) babies.. Until Neil the Tier 3 guy took a bite out of one and promptly spat in out, "Tastes like Megatrons bum".. Indeed after sampling the cakes for myself they did just taste like metal :-(
(Dippy, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 19:44, 8 replies)

Self Sabotage
I hosted a dinner party for some friends I'd met at the Rotary Club

I planned a menu of such exquisiteness and culture that Noel Coward himself would've left a small splatter of pre-cum in the crotch of his underpants, such would've been his excitement.

- Pan Seared quails livers on a bed of red cabbage.

- Chicken Marengo with Dauphinoise Potatoes and a port jús.

- A luxury Sherry Trifle with fresh summer fruits.

- Cheese and Biscuits.

Sadly as I am exceptionally badly organised, (I am as we speak only just completing 1994's tax return), I realised at the 11th hour that my kitchen was devoid of the necessary ingredients to conjour up this culinary festival.

I had no quails livers, and had to make do with a packet of Lambs liver which I found at the back of the freezer.
To compound my error, I also discovered that Chicken Marengo requires Crayfish tails....
... and chicken.

It was to this end that I served the following amended menu to my slightly bemused dinner guests.

- Lambs Liver on a bed of pickled lettuce.

- Turkey Twizzlers in tomato and onion with a fish finger garnish.

- Happy Shopper Vodka jelly (which smelt for the world like Petrol) with dried apricots.

- Copies of Razzle salvaged from the bin store.

Two of my guests suffered accentuated attacks of dysentry after the lambs liver, and claimed to have spent the following 24 hours with (to quote one of my peers) "The sluices well and truly open at both ends". They lost 3 stone between them.

The Vodka jelly bought on a riotous bout of flatulence in the rest of us, which caused one of my neighbours to call Transco. A semi-literate simeon dragged his knuckles to my front door and nearly passed out when the fug hit him.
I think the dried apricots must've been a bit off, perhaps I shouldnt have put them in the jelly when I noticed they had been fizzing in the bottom of the bag.
(Vic Flange, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 18:53, 3 replies)

I was working as a waiter and the punter ordered a bowl of shit with jizz on it
I gave him frosted shredded wheat.

that taught the cunt
(The Stalker's Stalker For all your stalking needs, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:43, 3 replies)

Student Halls
First post blah blah blah

So it was my first year and I was in student halls, living on a diet of mainly coco pops and pot noodles. Anyway I splashed out on a tub of luxury expensive chocolate ice cream and carefully stashed it away at the back of the freezer where, I hoped, it would be safe. 2 days later a more or less empty tub greets me (I believe tears came to my eyes). I was pissed and I knew who the culprit was as well, some stuck up bitch having her way paid for her by daddy while I fucking worked for that ice cream. So I shat in the tub! levelled it out and then once frozen scooped some out to make it look convincing. later while relaxing in my room I hear a massive retching, folllowed by copious amounts of vomit. Popped my head out and cheerfully reminded the cunt to make sure she cleaned up the mess. Ice cream from that day was safe as long as it was chocolate. a padlock and a mini fridge helped against petty revenge
(ladraven, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 21:48, 2 replies)

FOOD RELATED JOKE
Question - What is the difference between JAM and MARMALADE?

Answer - You can't MARMALADE your cock up someone's arse.

i go now.
(bacontrout got ska, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 1:53, 3 replies)

Don't eat the...oh.
Many years ago, the world cooled, dinosaurs roamed the earth, and I was at still at school. During the sixth form I was a member of the school debating society which mostly involved spending an hour after lessons every Wednesday sitting in a circle scoring points off each other and eyeing up the girls but sometimes the teacher who ran it did other stuff just to shake things up, and one of his ideas was a cookery contest.
My friend Matt and I, realising that we were no cooks but wanting to enter anyway asked ourselves the question "What sort of food does everyone like?" and answered it "Jaffa Cakes!", so we bought a flan base, some tangerine jelly and some cooking chocolate and showed up to the competition with our entry: the biggest Jaffa Cake you ever saw.

One entry we were surprised to see was Darrens. Darren was the sort of person who wasn't really right for the VIth form; not stupid but not academic either, he had a native talent for technical stuff which had got him good science GCSE results but meant he struggled with the raw theory of A levels. Obviously he was one of my best friends.
Nobody expected much of him from the competition and so everyone was surprised when he turned up with a huge and exquisite chocolate cake; it was properly made with swirls of icing atop the thick, chocolate shell. The shell was almost 1/2" thickness of pure chocolate and there was more inside, plus chocolate cream. Everyone was astonished and a queue of people stood round to try it.
Matt and I wandered over and Darren stopped us. "'Ere, lads", he said. "I wouldn't try the cake."
"Why not?"
"Because the other night I went round every chemist I could find and bought every single bar of laxative chocolate in town..."
(davywavy, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:49, Reply)

Apparently...
An enterprising French chef with a penchant for Swedish cars has recently developed a series of recipes for soups that contain traces of parts from his favourite car manufacturer.

He’s written a book about it. It’s called Food: Saab Potage…

/Coat
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:36, 6 replies)

I used to live with a Jewish guy,
actually quite religious, and said he didn't eat various things - pork, shellfish, particular kinds of jelly(!)...blah blah blah, a really long list anyway.

Well, he was having his Mum over, and I offered to make them a kosher meal.

They weren't as grateful after they ate it and I revealed it was 90% pork!

Fucking dickhead thinking he's better than everyone else, am I right?

What, I'm not right?

Oh...well, he wasn't Jewish, he was vegetarian. There we go, it's hilarious again.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 21:31, 3 replies)

Food Sabotage?
I am a regular victim of having my food sabotaged, usually my milk.

It seems to happen evey week, usually after an argument with my mates which ends with me telling Hannibal that "I ain't gettin on no plane".

Love

BA
(mon bison powered by magnets, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 15:03, 4 replies)

Taking the Daz Challenge: A Tale of Feeble Revenge
I have two older brothers, and whilst I was growing up, the younger of the two was a horrid, smelly, bully to me. There was only one instance where I was pushed to the point of revenge...

One day when I was about 7 and he was 10, he politely suggested I test out his DIY zip wire which he had created between trees in our Dad's garden. Since he had tricked me by going up the tree to "check out the amazing view", then pulled away the ladder and ignored my crying and begging for the good part of an hour, I accepted his proposal.
However, as the zip wire's "handle bar" was simply a piece of plastic clothes line, it naturally snapped as soon as it felt the strain of my weight (and I wasn't even a chubby little urchin).
Whilst lying in pain and shock on the ground (and part of the ladder -ouch) I recalled something disturbing... Whilst I was hurtling through the branches I caught sight of my brother's face - which was lit up with a huge deranged grin and demonic gleeful eyes. That, coupled with the fact that he scarpered as soon as I touched ground led me to suspect that he did not hold much regard for his little sister's life...

So I decided that I would lightly poison him.
My Dad had brought me some sweets to console me after I "fell down" and whilst munching on them I hatched my plan...
I emptied the sherbert from a Sherbert Dib Dab and replaced it with Daz washing powder. Then I walked up to my brother and feigned feeling sick from too many sweets and offered him the sugary treat...
Watching his face contort and seeing the congealed bluey-white gunk spew out of his mouth whilst he retched was HIGHLY satisfying! It was his own fault for ignoring the lollypop and tipping the sherbert straight down his gullet...

Looking back I feel it was an inadequate attempt at revenge, but at the time I thought Daz to be fairly toxic - even fatal.

Oh and to get revenge on my revenge he put me in a suitcase and rolled me down the stairs. For some reason he decided to shove a clock into the suitcase with me- not really sure why. Ah well- great days!

We're now good chums but he still likes to bring up my attempt at "murder by poisoning"- pah.
( awayfromthenumbers, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 13:41, 11 replies)

a hearty lunch
In biology class, we were experimenting with fruit flies (which basically involved killing them all, as far as I could tell) on slabs of agar jelly (to keep them alive).

An hour later, eating my packed lunch, my chesse sandwiches tasted decidedly odd. I persevered, much to the amusement of my 'friends' at the table. In a moment of great comedy, Fred had put agar in my sandwiches. And chucked the cheese, which was worse.

Revenge was sweet when the next day he was sitting at a different table in the dining room and opened his lunchbox to find not the delicious ham sandwiches his mother had prepared, but instead a sheep's heart between two slices of bread.

No one fucked with my lunch again.
(trevorthecat, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 9:10, 3 replies)

I had a nasty vehemently anti-social druggy benefit cheating chav move in next door to me in a shared house, and we shared a kitchen,
he would constantly keep nicking my food when he was off his tits on drugs and booze and then accusing me of eating his 'cos he had no memory of eating any of it, drove me feckin nuts. Also he as an utter utter cunt in every way he could think of and proud of it, including threats against my person, he made my life hell and eventually forced me to move out.

Anyway, before I had the idea to get my own fridge locked in my room, I would placate myself by always leaving one item out of every pack of foodstuffs I bought, or just the last of something, just for him, after having done something horrible to it, these included:

Spunking in a pasty.

Inserting a cooked sausage where the sun don't shine.

Pissing in the last of the milk.

Re-packaging laxative chocolate.

And my personal favourite, crushing some dodgy Es I had been given into some bottled beer along with a viagra, which caused him to wobble about the house in varying states of arousal for about 6 hours in just a T-shirt and boxers, knocking on everyone's doors telling them how he was really really horny and sexy and everybody wanted his babies, hint hint, before spectacularly throwing up on his own bed.

He really was an utter fuckwit oxygen thief tho and the repugnant greasy cunt bubble deserved all of it and more, I can assure you.
( ..wil, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 20:17, 7 replies)

Coeliac
My more attractive other is a coeliac. For those not schooled in the topics of 'diseases that make your starfish bleed', coeliac disease is an allergy to gluten, a protein found primarily in sandwiches, beer, cake and anything else delicious.

The only 'cure', as such, is a strict gluten-free diet. A single molecule can cause painful bum explosions, a larger quantity causes a minor, yet still dangerous, anaphylactic shock. Walking past a bakery gives him the shits.

His sister, Crazy Bitch, didn't believe it to be a genuine medical disorder. A couple of months ago, we had a happy days gathering at his parents' house. All were under strict instruction to keep his boring food well away from the lethal French bread; close proximity caused much shouting and waving of arms. His sister had other plans - she wanted to prove once and for all that he had made the whole thing up for attention!

When our backs were turned, she mixed bread crumbs in with his soup. He finished his soup with aplomb. Barely able to control herself, she stood up and laughed, "Ha! I told you that you aren't allergic, you show-off!"

He wound up in hospital, unable to breathe. I had to deal with two weeks of the toilet bowl aftermath.

Ha, yes, wasn't that a funny gag.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 19:53, 13 replies)

pink peril
i was a child and my parents had invited other grown ups round for dinner. it was really boring. all they did was drink and talk and the food looked weird. it took them hours to eat and i wasn't allowed to watch telly. i couldn't wait for dessert any longer, so i asked mum if i could have some of the strawberry mousse. she was busy talking and nodded to me absently, waving her hand, so i helped myself. there's was a big, fat grape on top so i helped myself to that too. dessert was the best thing to have happened that night so i got the biggest spoon i could find and piled it high with strawberry mouse. i balanced the grape carefully on the top and crammed it all into my mouth.

being quite young, i have no idea what language i could have had at the time to describe the sheer horror of what filled my mouth. it was not sweet, creamy fruitiness. it was as though everything that had once been alive in the oceans had shat themselves simultaneously, then died, sank to the bottom, rotted for a few months, then got scraped up, pureed with mayonnaise and finally served at our table with a grape on top. the grape! maybe the fresh, watery slightly sharp taste of the grape would neutralise the foulness rotting in my mouth. i bit down. dear god no it didn't. it didn't burst open like a grape. it squidged, like i imagined a slug would. and the liquid that oozed out was like some kind of toxic slick. the flesh ground itself between my teeth and smeared all over my tongue. i ran screaming from the room in a spray of pink, up the stairs and into the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. i was still convulsing in bed that night.

some years later i found out it was taramasalata and an olive, which is the exact opposite of strawberry mousse and a grape. she could have bloody told me.
(threadkiller, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:37, 4 replies)

about 17 years ago...
whilst working at a local hotel owned by the son of my parents' old next door neighbours...

there was this guy...

who used to visit us sometimes on a sunday or monday evening...

my 2 favourite tales involve him...

he was (and is probably still) an arrogant twat...

he KNEW that monday night was Chef's night off. on a monday night he would often turn up 10 minutes before close of service, tart on arm, DEMANDING dishes from the full menu despite knowing that only a (slightly) reduced menu was on offer.

one particular monday she ordered the potted shrimp starter and shoulder of lamb with redcurrant sauce entree.
the twat ordered a DOUBLE PRAWN COCKTAIL ie twice the prawns, regular amount of salad. DESPITE there being no prawn cocktail on the menu. what a cock. for main course he WANTED the Tournedos Rossini which is basically a fillet steak on a big crouton topped with a slice of foie grasse with a sauce of demi-glace and madeirra and i can't remember what else.

this was not on the reduced menu.

which he knew.

CUNT

and he wanted it WELL DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

what a troll!

washed down with 3 bottles of cotes du rhone.

all is going well until his main course arrives on a (warm) plate that is not "hot enough". this was 'par for the course' but still annoying.

"terribly sorry sir, will take care of that" says i (wanting to cunt him in the fuck), off to kitchen, transfers rossini to salver and pops under bottom of grill to keep warm. blaireau grabs fresh "dudson steelite tm" dinner plate from hot cupboard,(seeing the red rag he was shaking at my bull!) lights twin gas ring on hob and deposits plate above flames.

fresh pan and madeira and demi-glace produces re-vitalising sauce for the now tired steak.

literally glowing-red plate (I AM NOT FUCKING JOKING, THESE PLATES ARE FORGED BY SATAN HIMSELF TO TAKE THIS HEAT) welcomes rossini with a fizz and a splutter and the fresh sauce literally FROTHS with effervescent boiling energy, cooling the plate by maybe a hundred or so degrees.

even so, as i carried the dish the 15 yards from kitchen to table i could really feel the HEAT forcing its way through the many layers of my linen serving cloth.

as i approached table 5a the twat extended his arm to recieve his plate...

"i really wouldn't recommend touching the plate, sir. it is a little hot"

twat reacts by reaching out even further, almost grasping the still fizzing platter of meaty goodness.

"seriously sir, the plate is RATHER HOT AND I WOULD SUGGEST THAT YOU DON'T TOUCH IT"

i manage to negotiate the plate past his grasping paw and on to the table.

"once again sir, chef (me! cos real chef is off being a dirty shagger) literally took you at your word (ie is a pedantic angry twat) and the plate is RATHER HOT"

guess how many steps i managed from the table before i heard an anguished squeel?

5?

4?

3?

2?

1!

only 1!


hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!


CUNT WITH A BURNT PAW!!!!!!




being the ever professional and ever compassionate blaireau69 i fetched him a wet cloth and some ice for his mitt.

i did manage to point out that he had been warned too, the tart agreed and he could only nod somewhat meekly...








and he left a £25 tip too!









a burning ring of fire!!!





and i also phoned da feds and got him busted for drink driving that night. they picked him up 400 yards from the hotel.



revenge is a dish best served cold?


naah, red hot is best!!



if i get enough replies then i'll post the other (very dodgy) second story about this twat!


length? it was on the gas for a full 3 minutes.
girth? about 270mm of glowing red ceramic.
( blaireau69 , the Cumbrian Travis Bickle., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 1:30, 4 replies)

sorry for the irrelevance
but i got a shiny new fluffeh kitteh today :)
(Freddles, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 23:15, 10 replies)

An autobiographical tale, or Pwned - whichever, I suffer.
I'd like to introduce you to my missus. I've spoken about her on here before. In my eyes she's legendary, having an arse that is fouler than Satan's breath and more productive than a whole series of Japanese automotive plants.

So I guess I should have known I would have been in for hell this morning whilst cooking up a spicy molé last night with chipotle, jalapenos, chili flakes and fresh chili, topped off with an astringent salsa and refried beans. And I wasn't attempting to sabotage her particularly - I just like to make a tasty stew and her guffery is just, normally, an unfortunate side effect.

Well, the hell started last night and I was treated to a series of under-duvet eruptions that smelt simultaneously fruity, but off - like a decomposing badger who'd dined on asafoetida and eggs.

Anyway, enough of all this extrapolation, to the meat of the story. I've just woken her up with a cup of tea and our little 'un aged 3 giving her a cheery good morning as well.

And me and the lad came back down the stairs - I've even put the bacon on - and I saw her rushing for the loo...

A slight smile playing on her lips.

She's been up there some time, still is, and she's called for a copy of her professional magazine to bide her time...

But I know her game...

She's brewed up a treat for me in there and there's no way I'm going up to find my throat being contracted and my nostril hairs singed.

So I sent up the little lad with the book, to act as a canary.

He hasn't come back down yet...

EDIT: Shit, typing this, I've just burnt the toast. What a berk.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 9:08, 7 replies)

More wine please......
('Tis a tenuous link but it does involve food and my apparent sabotage of my daughter's idea of the perfect meal. Besides, it was just too good of a story not to share with the world.)

I've just arrived home from taking my daughters out to our favorite Itallian restaurant. As usual, the service was fantastic and the food sublime. But that isn't the funny part of the story.

As we sat down, a discussion began concerning what new dishes we'd like to try or if we should go with old favorites. This is when my youngest opened her menu, pointed to a bottle of wine and announced, "Look, they have wine. I want some wine for dinner."

Now, we don't really have anyone in our family who is a wine drinker so I'm still not sure where she even learned about wine much less what the bottles look like.

After I stopped laughing, I told my dear daughter, "Sweetie, I know you are 6 years old now, but that is still a bit too young for drinking wine with your dinner."

She then became a bit adamant, "Oh, I don't want anything to eat. I just want the wine."

I had to again tell her no.

Then she came out with, "Well can I just try it to see what it tastes like?" I told her that once she turns 21 she can have all the wine she wants. She wailed, "But I'll be almost an adult by then!"

My response was not in favor of her desires.

Then the waiter arrived for the drinks order. Mandy sat up straight, looked up at him with the most serious and grown-up expression she could manage, used the loudest vioce she could muster, and said, "I'd like a bottle of wine please."

People at tables as far away as across the room burst out in laughter.


I don't even drink FFS!
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Sat 20 Sep 2008, 3:10, 2 replies)

I've mentioned this one before, but it's worth another airing, with further details
During the second year at Uni. back in 1997, we had a new addition to our student flat in the form of 'Babs' - and Babs was a little naive about the ways of the west as he hailed from Nigeria, the son of a very rich family out there (where everything was done for him)

Now, before I get on to the act of food sabotage in question, have some background information which led to us exacting some 'revenge'

He arrived in England on a Friday. He then travelled up from London to Bolton where we welcomed him to the flat and did the whole 'if you need anything just shout' speech. Bearing in mind he'd only been in the country for around 24 hours, we thought we'd keep an eye on him to make sure he was ok, can't have been easy for him making such a huge adjustment so quickly.

Sunday morning. 6am. Doors to flat bang and open and then close loudly. Being a Sunday, nobody wants to get up at 6am to see what's going on. Eventually, everyone else is up and milling about in the flat kitchen by 10am... Everyone except Babs that is. We knock on the door, nothing.

'Hmmm', we thnk, 'he must have gone out shopping or something, no harm in that'.

2pm comes and goes, still nothing. 3pm, 4pm, 5pm all pass by. Zip. No sign of him. By 6pm, with no sign of him, and us all realising he doesn't know the area at all, we get cautious and ring the police. He may, after all, be lost somewhere.

11.30pm. That's when Babs rolls through the door, with a grin across his face like a Cheshire Cat. After all the 'where the f*ck have you been???' conversations he looked at us puzzled and replied,

"I've been to Church".

Puzzled, we enquired further. Babs then went on to tell us that he needed to find a Pentecostal Church to go to on the Sunday, so he got up early to go scouting around. This scouting around involved him walking around Bolton, and then somehow out onto and along the various A roads following road signs to Manchester - 16 miles away, where he found a church to visit. Said Church welcomed him, and then invited him to an afternoon picnic they were holding, where he duly went before leaving to walk the 16 miles back to Bolton, getting back at 11.30pm

It was then we told him where the Pentecostal Church was in Bolton.

His naivity often came at the worst possible times as well. Often the Kitchen would be a complete disaster area due to his 'experiments, as back at home, everything was done for him by servants. On one memorable occasion, after 2 failed attempts, he held a potato in front of me, asking "Simon, how do I turn this into chips"?

Also, upon seeing snow for the first time in his life, he decided at 5am one Sunday morning to take all our pots and pans from the kitchen to collect snow and make a huge snowman in the middle of the courtyard at the halls of residence at 6am on a Sunday, with 400 students bearing down on him from surrounding windows, often wondering what the sound of clattering pots and pans was coming from the Courtyard, and a few 'choice' phrases being shouted to him by several students.

Gradually, we were worn down to the point of needing some form of revenge. We had got him out of a few 'near misses' with locals, and his family (sadly) never bothered to ring and check up on him that much, leaving us to do a lot of handholding.

Babs, during our time with him, developed a keen taste and extreme passion for Hot Chocolate. In fact, it would be fair to say that if he could, he would live off it.

However, one cruel evening early in Babs' Hot Chocolate drinking career, we decided to top it up with more than a few hefty spoonfuls of Cayenne Pepper, shook it up and left it. Day after day and night after night Babs continued drinking it, and we continued topping it up with more pepper and further chocolate and he never twigged... For weeks.

Then came the comment which the rest of us couldn't help but fall about laughing at...

"You know, the more of this stuff you drink, the hotter it gets, I can see why they call it HOT Chocolate".

To be honest though, I don't think the sabotage really worked, as he still kept drinking it like it was going out of fashion. I wonder if he's been disppointed by the 'Hotness' of Hot Chocolate ever since leaving us.
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 12:51, 10 replies)

Sabotage the child, not the food.
When my daughter was about 2, she liked to help with the cooking by sitting on the worktop and passing things. This stopped when she squeezed half a tube of garlic purée into her mouth, and swallowed it with every sign of enjoyment. Six hours later, the garlic began to emerge through her pores. It kept on emerging for six days, by which time her playgroup had shampooed their carpet, our neighbours had washed their dog twice and my MIL had made innumerable remarks about Pakis, the racist old trout.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 22:40, Reply)

Does it count if you sabotage your own food?
I'm a really bad cook with a habit of wondering things like "What happens if you put reheated baked beans into scrambled eggs?"
(Result: Pink shit on toast and farting like a Bison for the next two days)
Then there's the time I tried tenderising a steak by putting it into a carrier bag and whacking it against the side of the house.
(The bag split on the backswing and my tea sailed off into the undergrowth.)

I may have pissed on somebody's leeks once. I'm a bit hazy on that one.
(Big D, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 23:39, 1 reply)

He tried to frame me at work..
My Fat lazy waste of oxygen of a boss tried to set me up just after Christmas.

I worked hard everyday, and 95% of the time was the first to arrive and the last to leave at night. If it was quiet I would find work to do - even if it meant sweeping the warehouse floor, and when necessary, I would stop over late to load up wagons etc. Customers love me too..mainly because I know these machines like the back of my hand, so on the whole, you'd say I'm a pretty good employee.

It stems back to when I had gone to Australia on business. I'm not a seasoned businessman, and I was in the most beautiful place on the planet for 3 weeks by myself..so consequently I wasn't too hot on 'collecting receipts' to cover the 'advance' the company had given me prior to departure. But as soon as I came back I admitted it, handed in what receipts I had, and was told at the time by the 'owner' of the company to just make a list of what I had spent and it would be sorted.

9 months passed by, and often I would ask what was happening with the receipts to no reply.. so those bits of paper floated around the office.

Christmas break, and I return to work to find a letter from the boss sat on my desk.( Now, there are only 3 of us that work here) Inside it abruptly demanded the balance from the oz trip, a supposed £500 ! (9 months later.. !? Some pregnancies are faster). So I politely replied back by email pointing out that the bits of paper had been in the possession of the company for 9 months..not secured, and that I believed there must have been some lost.. (I had forgotten some receipts, but christ almighty..not £500 worth !) I also reminded him that there had been a break-in into the office November time, but I was always willing to discuss the matter.

The next day, (I have nick named him Judas) Judas stormed into the warehouse and made up a story about a heavy item falling on his leg, (I also knew the warehouse like the back of my hand and I knew there wasn't anything in the area he specified), and he consequently gave me a written warning !

I've never had a written warning in my life !

I appealed, and questioned why, such a serious accident was not written in the First Aid Accident Book?.. and you guessed it, he changed his story to "It nearly fell on him".

The next thing I know, I received a letter, (actually sent to my parents address - which really pissed me off, because my father was given 6 months to live by doctors, and quite frankly he can do without this kind of shit to think about).. The letter was from a Solicitor stating that if I did not repay the money, they would do me for FRAUD !

I was in absolute pieces. How could this be happening? I was in a job that I loved and excelled at, and now the whole deck of cards was falling down around me..

I had kept everything, and had amassed quite a bit of evidence in my favour.. including a message between Judas and the owner of the company with my name on it, listing legislation for dismissal. It seemed they had already made up their minds ! (I was particularly stunned when a customer relayed that Judas had said that I was leaving the company - before Christmas!).

So I went to a solicitor.. she said I had an excellent case, and wrote a letter stating that we would fight tooth and nail.

Relieved that I wasn't going mad, and somebody was fighting my corner for a change, I continued back to work just like normal.

To cut the story from going any longer.. I had the Owner of the company come over from the US and apologise personally, and Judas apologised too. They asked for a clean slate, and to forget it all and move forward..

So what the fuck does this have to do with sabotage?

Well, Judas and I are on (in his eyes) good pally terms, and I always make his cups of tea. Each one lovingly made with my piss.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:55, 5 replies)

Sorry Mum...
Some time last month, I arrived home very drunk and made my way to the kitchen for some water. It was here that I noticed my mum had made a huge chocolate cake, it looked lovely and she'd obviously spent a lot of time and effort on it.
In my drunken state I thought it was funny to sabotage it.I got a tin of pineapple rings from the cupboard and placed it on top of the cake so I could score a circle around it. Once I'd done this, I cut down and removed the inside of the cake, filled it back up with the pineapple rings, and placed about an inch of the cake back on top, to cover my tracks. Then I stuck a cocktail stick in it, with a small flag which read 'Turd Mountain'.

My mum was not happy the next day.....
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:44, 3 replies)

Poker
My housemates and I had some friends over for a game of poker. I had cooked dinner that evening, and as it was the end of term, we were very low on ingredients. Two packets of cheese sauce, and some rice. Fine. Cheesy rice! Unfortunately, it turns out to be absolutely minging, although most people manage 2/3 of a plate.

After we ad eaten. other friends arrived, and the game commenced. Of course, we weren't playing for money: it was drinking poker, as in: I raise you two shots of absinthe. Generally results in everyone becoming roundly cunted within an hour or so. Aside from John, the militant Christian, who did not drink.

When it's getting to the stage where we're just about ready to go out (people are starting to fall off their chairs), Chris, another one of my friends raises John 'a pint of urine'. After a bit of bartering, they agree that the looser has to drink as much as the other can piss. Everyone else folds, aside from Chris and John.

Chris: "Okay, what've you got"
John: "Royal flush"
Chris: "Shit... nine high"
John: "Hahahahahah"

John departs to the toilet, and brings back a (completely full) pint of his finest. Chris decides the only way he can make it drinkable is to put some ice, tabasco, and Robinson's fruit juice in it. It does not go down well, and results in a lot of vomit, which is all lovingly videoed, and added to facebook.

Three questions were raised that evening:
Why John the militant Christian thinks swigging urine is okay, but alcohol not?

What kind of mongo raises someone a pint of piss with a nine high?

Why the fuck was Chris willing to drink a pint of piss, but not to have a spoonful of the dinner I had lovingly prepared?

I felt so hurt.
(Merrep, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:07, 3 replies)

Spicey minge
I hated my old flatmate with a passion that came from 9 months of her moaning non-stop about everything from lack of boys to my supposed bad washing-up, stealing my food as she had bulimia (so I couldn't have a go at her), stinking the house out with burnt cauliflower, threatening me with the police if I ever let anyone smoke weed in her house again (we were 1st year students) amongst many other crimes I've long forgotten, so I got her back by putting extra hot chilli powder:

In her flour

In her vanilla essence (this bulimic likes baking)

In her butter

In her pasta sauce

In her tomato puree

In her sugar (caster and demerera)

And my favourite- cramming some into the nozzle of her vaginal deodorant.

I wish I'd been there when she spiced up her minge- she was one of those weird Christian types who doesn't believe in touching it, always washed with a flannel etc so in my mind's eye it would have been a Laurel and Hardy-esque job to coordinate things to clean the burning hot snatch.
(octopuspie, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:03, 3 replies)

Tea Pete
It was a glorious summer’s day and my housemates and I were in our back garden celebrating this rarity of British meteorology in the only way we knew. With a barbeque.

As the sun shone upon the succulent meat cooking upon the hot coals embedded on a rickety £10 Asda grill, the environment was serenely perfect for spiritual reflection on life in its many wonderful forms, even with a hangover.

In light of this uncharacteristic good mood, I decided to do the honours of offering to make tea for myself and those around me.

Maybe it was the weather or maybe just good timing, but the unanimous approval from those around me was evident, and so it was that I embarked to the kitchen to begin the brew.

A few minutes later and four cups of brown liquid stood in front of me ready to be presented to their rightful owners. Rather than risk the two-per hand carrying approach favoured by seasoned veterans, I opted for the two at a time in two journeys way. Today wasn’t a day for risks.

Chris and Aaron were most happy with their tea, as was evident in the gratified smiles upon their faces as they took their tepid first sips, gauging the temperature of the institution within.

As I began the second journey back to the wonderful sunshine with the remaining two teas in my hands, for reasons unknown a chemical shift within my brain engaged the mischief switch. I was doing all I could to stifle my own laughter as I walked through the kitchen door towards an eager and expectant Pete whose arms were raised waiting for his warm refreshment.

As I walked out the door, I placed my own cup on the ground near my own feet, turned to the wall furthest from where all were laying and with all my might launched the cup of boiling hot tea, shattering the cup into hundreds of chunks and splinters.

To say we laughed would be an understatement. Between tears of laughter, Pete used his gasping breaths to call me a cunt as many times as he possibly could whilst I made the most of his paralysis by necking my own cup before retribution was possible. The physical damage the extreme heat was causing my throat may have been unpleasant, but scoldy tea was better than no tea at all.

After the fuss had settled down, I apologised to Pete and said I'd make him another cup to as a peaceful gesture for accidentally dropping his last one.

I ended up smashing two more cups this way, each time seeming somehow funnier than the last. It was only on the third time when Chris reminded me that we wouldn't have any cups left to drink tea ourselves that I realised it was time to stop.

I never did make Pete a cup of tea.
( ma0sm, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:28, 2 replies)

Food First, Sabotage later
I am not one to gloat much but I will admit that I am pretty high up in the company I work for. I am not one of those guys who got whereI am by doing sod all I, gave my entire life to this company and also sacrificed a few personal things because of it (i.e. personal life, my friends and my family).

Anywhoo as I am pretty high up the pecking order here I usually dont spend time with the usual dogsbodies in the staff canteen, but one time I was at another office and had forgot to bring my lunch so I took a deep breath and took a stroll down to the place that hygenie forgot.

The first thing that hit me was the smell. I never realised how bad this place was, it stunk like it had been left unclean for a few years, which was strange as the canteen was in a new building. Despite this there was a glimmer of hope as I realised that they had my favourite pasta based dish available. Due to a bit of a misuderstanding on my behalf I ignored all instructions of canteen ettiquette and walked straight up to the bloke behind the counter and placed my order.

At first I thought the scummy little chef was asking for a fight but when I realised that he was just showing me that I needed to go get a tray I apologised.

Trouble was that when I went to get my tray some other git had jumped the queue and stolen my pasta dish. I was not amused and secretly got the name of the bloke who took it.

Being a higher up I was not allowed to outright beat the crap out of him and as spitting in his pasta was a pretty lowbrow thing to do, I got my revenge in a much more subtle way; I went into the staff records and changed the day of his shore leave to Alderaan to the day I tested the Death Star.

That'll teach him to nick my Penne arrabiata.

Regards


Darth Vader (not to be confused with Jeff Vader)
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:16, 9 replies)

A guy I used to work with…

named Keith, was the type of person whom one could vehemently categorise as a ‘proper cunt-twitch’.

His crime? – Amongst general twattery, he was a ‘copy-cat’ of the highest order. Keep up with the Joneses? He tried to keep up with the Smiths, the Joneses, the Patels and in one particularly tragic case, the Ngumbmbas

I hated him, he hated me, but it was mostly a cowardly, unspoken hatred…yet he still copied everything I did. One time I was overheard mentioning to my friends that I had invested a large share of my savings into an account with the famous South African Reserve Bank (SARB) as a going concern. Not 5 minutes later, he was boasting that he’d done the same thing. I expressed an interest in Indian religion and got a wonderful little porcelain Taj Mahal for my desk…Keith goes and does exactly the same thing.

Well, this went on and on, and at first I considered ‘pretending’ to be interested in something…just to see if the scrotesack would follow suit. But then I thought of a much more cunning ploy...

I would piss in his tea. Mwwahaahaaa etc.

Smarmily watching on as he sipped at my seepage, the look in his eyes was priceless as he realised something ‘didn’t quite taste right’ and he slowly put 2 and 2 together.

How I ‘lol’led…but my merriment was short lived, as I was forgetting his copy-cat, one-upmanship issues.

The next time I received a drink, there was a monumentally girthsome brown trout poking out from the top of my mug. I glanced over to see Keith almost prolapsing with mirth.

‘Time to turn up the heat’ I thought.

Never to be outdone, the following tea round saw Keith handed a veritable vichyssoise of ‘I can’t believe it’s not bell-end butter’, hand cracked by me into his prized ‘Wallace and Gromit’ cup.

Well, that was the straw that broke Keith’s camel…or whatever the expression is. He launched the mug across the room in disgust and shouted ‘THAT’S.FUCKING.IT!’

He challenged me there and then…and I gleefully accepted, I had been waiting for years to give the fucker a taste of the back of my hand…

‘Come on then!’ I taunted. But Keith had other ideas. He said we should have a duel…and the loser would have to leave the company forever.

‘Erm....ok...But what weapons would we use?’ I asked.

To my utter disbelief, Keith then offered two options. He said that we could either show each other the bank books from our investment to see who had the most money, or measure up the porcelain trinkets from our desks to see which one was the biggest. That way we would realise who was best.

Instantly recognising these suggestions as an act of purest mentalism, I promptly proceeded to punch him squarely in the face, beat him to the ground with his chair and threw him out bleeding into the street with his miniature souvenir building lodged firmly up his dirtbox.

I never saw him again. But that, dear comrades, is the story of my…

Feud: SARB or Taj?

/coat

Look, at least I left it until Thursday :)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Thu 25 Sep 2008, 9:43, 15 replies)

My wife's allergic to tea...
...so I wiped my knob inside my own cup of tea and then asked her for a blowjob.

Mind you, she said no and I scalded my cock.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 18:36, 1 reply)

Caffeine fun
I shared a secretary with my boss. He wasn't too bad, but tended to have mood swings. After she left we kept in touch and she eventually admitted she was partly to blame for them.

This was before there was a Starbucks on every corner and she used to get coffee from the crappy drinks machine for him - he'd drink a lot over the day. She'd amuse herself by giving him an increasing proportion of decaffeinated cups over a few days, until his tolerance levels had dropped.

Then she'd wait until the day he had a big meeting, and give him superstrength coffee all morning. He'd be bouncing off the walls like he'd been slipped some speed.

Then the process would begin again. She did it to him for nearly four years...
(Bowens, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 5:54, 2 replies)

Looking through the pages
I can see you're all a shower of bastards.

You're never coming round for dinner. Ever.

I remembered another story too though.

My friend, who we shall call Josh for fun, used to work in a kitchen with a magnificent cunt called Ian who was the head chef. I too have worked with Ian and know he is in fact a complete shit, and deserves everything he gets.

Ian, being the coked up nazi fuckhead he is, often found it hilarious to chuck fucking hot pans at us lowly dish pigs, as if our jobs weren't shit enough. Towel whipping was rife, as was manly banter, and frequent reminders we were all wankers, when he fucked up.

Anyways, i'd like to say that he got his comeuppance in the form of a briny cup of tea. Alas, my friend Josh told us of his attempts at getting back at Ian, which were as follows.

Whilst incredibly hungover one day, he offered Ian a fresh brew, plotting to spike it with golden treasures. This isn't the funny bit though, for Josh in his unthinking genius decided to stir his tea with his penis after spraying it with his scent.

You heard. He stirred his freshly boiled tea with his cock.

In his hungover state, he didn't even wait for it to cool down that long.

He told us that as he screamed like a girl, the kitchen staff found him holding his raw penis, with steamy, wet legs and a smashed cup on the floor. He didn't even wait for a response from anyone, got his things and left work, never to return.

As I said, I wish this was a story about how Ian got fucked over, but it's not to be. He is a cunt though.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 15:22, 3 replies)

David Winter
.
When I was a young sprog there was 9 day wonder by some bloke called David Winter.

David was a kind of faith-healer and he'd been contacted by this *HUGE* fat lass called Gloria. Gloria wanted David to make her lose weight. The way he did it was quite ingenious.

He had a the local slaughterhouse dump a ton of pig outside Gloria's house and, too make sure that she didn't eat it (or it might have been to stop to rotting) doused it in formaldehyde. Then Mr Winter made Gloria meditate while looking at the pork.

"Every time you're tempted to overeat, just think of this fatty meat. That's what you'll look like if you don't stop eating"

And bugger me if it didn't work. The weight just fell off Gloria and she ended up almost slyph-like.

Of course this story took the imagination of Fleet Street and David Winter became a minor celebrity. He wrote articles, put out a book and started making personal appearances which is where I met him. He'd been invited to open our local Summer Fete and, not only open the Fete, he was going to be the DJ for the Fete Dance.

So there I was in the crowd looking at Mr Winter along with the now famous pile of pig meat. The Vicar came to the microphone and I'll never forget the words he used to introduce him.

"This is D Winter of our disco-tent, who made Gloria slimmer with this ton of pork....."

Cheers

Shoot me, just shoot me now..
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 12:48, 3 replies)

And another!
I've never had an answer to QOTW, now I've got loads.

We were having some teas after a rather heavy night, and had a few packets of biscuits to go with them.

Unfortunately for my mate (funnily enough, one of the two who was involved in the cat food incident) his mug was the same circumference as a digestive biscuit.

Everytime he was distracted (often: he's that sort of bloke) I dropped a biscuit into his cuppa. He didn't take many sips from it, so I managed to get (IIRC) six biscuits into it without him noticing.

He soon remembered his tea, now cool enough to neck, and downed it. Or, more specifically, attempted to down it. It turned out that there was a thin layer of tea over a thick sludge.

Some of the nasty paste went down his throat, some on his face, some down his front.

Tea/Digestive paste + rotten hangover = puking. Funny stuff.
(MrKipling43, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:54, 1 reply)

I just cook it .
That's sabotage enough for me.
( girlinthehole, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:36, Reply)

Well, I don't know if anyone's seen the footage....
But I suffer from short term memory loss...terrible affliction. Anyhooo, I also struggled being a man for the first 20 years of life, and decided to have a lifestyle (read: sex) change. One of my lady-friends didnt take kindly to this and bullied me over it, fairly horrifically.

My plan to take revenge against her for the traumatic abuse took form.

I invited her over for dinner, under the pretence that there'd be many mutual acquaintences. In reality there was only one. Me.

Now it just so happens that the bully I know is rather blind, and has no sense of smell, which made my plan all the easier to concoct. Once we'd eaten our meals, I asked my brother to film what would be the revenge of the century...I asked the bully if she'd like some icecream.

She said yes.


So i took her cone, and like some horrific Mr Shitty-Wippy, curled a turd off into it. She was none the wiser as i handed it to her, and she started nuzzling it and licking it. "AHA!" I thought to myself...the bitch fell for it.

As it turns out... I forgot all about pinching the log off 30 seconds after having done it, and started to join in, thinking 'wow, that chocolate icecream looks mighty fine!'

The video speaks for itself.

And the nudity and blatant lesbian undertones are all coincidental.
(the_biochem_ninja can resist everything except temptation, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 0:18, 1 reply)

Twat boss
My old boss was such a twat.

To get back at him I poured coffee into his toilet and watched him piss into it!
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:18, 3 replies)

sick tub
Tenuous and disgusting, but it involves food and the sabotage of people's day.

At Uni I lived with an incredibly skanky scratter named Phil. He was a born again Christian, incredibly thick but, most importantly was under the delusion that nothing could kill him, or harm him unless god willed it. He was, in short, a total fruitcake.

Given his beliefs he found it unnecessary to wash, had a "bath in a can" (a once over spray of deodorant) once a month and never, ever, did any washing up.

On the kitchen counter he had a washing up bowl full of water in which he'd leave his dirty pots and pans to "soak" in about six inches of water. The purpose of this procedure was to ensure that last nights dinner was removed from his pots, pans and plates ready for use the next day. On top of this he'd placed a firm lid so that over the course of the year an entire ecosystem had developed in the tub - he 'd never once cleaned it out or changed the water.

9 months in and this tub had started to smell extremely bad. It could be smelt from outside the flat, and visitors had started to retch and gag on entering the kitchen. Something had to be done.

Paul drew the short straw, and it was his task to make the initial foray - open the lid, and assess the contents. When the lid was prised off the smell was so bad he instantly projectile vomited inside the bowl, adding to the 12 inches of brown, green, orange and red gunk inside (examination showed it be comprised of layers similar to the dust rings of Jupiter, but with the consistency of jam). The lid was quickly replaced. Later on, thinking I was made of sterner stuff I had a go and added my own vomit.

Our kitchen window overlooked the main path into our halls of residence, so the obvious solution was to remove the tub (with lid firmly attached) to the corner of the path, place a sign on top with the words "Do not look inside me", and settle down with some smokes at the kitchen window. Over the course of a single afternoon around 15 different people opened the tub, and roughly half were sick inside. Each one got a resounding cheer from the crowd that had by now gathered in our kitchen to watch.

The tub was later removed by environment health officers. It was fucking disgusting.
( rofl harris, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 12:29, 2 replies)

Food sabotage
Sadly my one instance of food sabotage is quite lame.
But a friend really pulled a sick one.

Mine, back in the days when i regularly cooked for friends, there was one guy who always put loads of salt on his food before he even tasted it.
I seethed about it for ages until one day I asked him why he did that.
He said liked lots of salt and I didnt add enough. Fu*kwit!
After eating my free food once a week for over a year and never once reciprocating I snapped.
Next time he came round for food, i poured a whole salt cellar onto his plate and mushed it in.
He of course proceeded to pour salt onto the plate as soon as I set it down in front of him.
I just gave him a glare and said I have salted that already for you, if you dont finish that I will never feed you again.
And watched him bravely try to eat it all, and fail.
And yes he never got free food from me again.

My friends story, much better.
Her BF liked to drink those poncy herbal teas, like hibiscus and monkey tail with a hint of amazonian dolphin.
Tea bag that sits in you cup with a string dangling over the edge.
After she found out he had cheated on her she made him a cup of something red coloured.
He took a few sips before removing the string to find a used tampon.
Class, I loved that woman :)
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 1:20, 1 reply)

Yuk.
Not exactly sabotage but when moving back into a flat with new room mates we were having a bit of a clean out. As the place had been unused for the summer the fridge had been turned off with a carton of milk still in it.

Knowing better than to open it I put it on top of the table ready to throw out.

(You can see where this is going eh?)

Yep - cue room mate Mark, opens carton and takes a massive gulp. I freeze, mouth open unable to speak. He freezes as the colour drains from his face before doing the most spectacular display of projectile vomiting it has been my priviledge to witness. It was like Liberace's dancing waters - gravity defying, and ended up in every room as he ran around like a headless chicken trying hard to think of a way to rid himself of the taste.

Because of the stench of rancid milk, the smell of vomit and the thought of what he had done my other room mate and I soon ended up joining in on the yak fest and puked our rings up.

To be honest I still feel sick just thinking about it.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:28, Reply)

At uni
I used to be a particular fan of sausages, but some bastard kept stealing my Pork Farms Lincolnshire chive sausages every week. So I painstakingly replaced the meat with Semtex and a pressure-sensitive detonator.

I was woken that very night by the kitchen wing being wiped off the face of the earth, along with the sausage thief, who was utterly vaporised.

But wouldn't you know it? A week later, and with the kitchen replaced with a pre-fab hut, some tosser started stealing my Dairylea cheese triangles. There was nothing for it but to pull up the lino next to the fridge and bury a colossal landmine there.

Well, you can imagine the rest. Or maybe you can't, because what happened next was quite unexpected.

Someone else had been having their food stolen, too, and they had the exact same idea of using a landmine to deter thieves. So when my landmine went off, it exploded their landmine...and a bucket of C4 that someone else had put in the fridge. The subsequent explosion was so massive that the pre-fab kitchen was lifted into orbit and is circling the Earth as you read this.

The crater went right to the molten core of the planet.
(frankspencer, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 21:59, 9 replies)

Manked camping
One weekend camping at a festival, my friend rather kindly offered to make tea - as everyone was still suffering from the night before, this was a most welcome offer from her.

As the tea was supped, someone commented that it really didn't taste good.

A bit of investigation, sniffing the kettle, and checking the various bottles of liquid around, it was discovered she had mistaken the bottle of Bacardi for the bottle of water.

Everyone was drinking boiled rum with sugar, milk and teabag.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:58, Reply)

hmmm
When i was a young pie man i Worked on a building site the purpose of which was to build a new sewage works for a small town. This job was beset by the usual problems but the staff were reasonably competent for the most part and these problems were kept to a minimum.....

Competent that is except the 17 year old chain man. This man was a local and as thick as only a council estate wallah can be. He delighted in playing fucking stupid practical jokes.

Apart from his usual pastimes of standing still and dribbling we found that he was into body building in a big way. Often he would flex his muscles at us after a particularly spectacular session of grunting at weights.

The trouble started when we caught him doing chin ups off a beam in a shed when he was supposed to be working. A bunch of us burst in and found him beaming like a pissed up tramp at a job well done. He had beaten his previous chin up record on the shed roof beam.
This is where yours truly started an epic feud by betting the cretin that he couldn't stand in a steel bucket and pick himself up with the handles. Now I know it is cruel to take the piss out of the mentally challenged but the sight of this bulging veined retard straining like fuck to pick himself up while stood in a bucket and taking the accompanying disbelieving laughter as encouragement has etched itself permanently into the comic archives of my brain. After around 15 minutes and several gasps of "I don't understand it i can do loads of chin ups" the light finally dawned and he understood that he had been had and so commenced a campaign of terror upon his tormentor.

This included but is not exclusive to, hiding my stuff trying to make me late and trying to get me into the shit with the site manager. At one point he threw my £10 special work trainers onto the roof of the portacabin and was astonished when to get my revenge i nailed his £80 Nike air max to the portacabin ceiling.This was worth it for the bemused expression on his gurning mug as he wandered around trying to find the chavvy articles

This ill feeling built up for some time and work on the site progressed. The management had taken the decision to put stuff from the drying beds from the existing shit works between the new concrete structures. This was basically dried shit complete with used tampons/condoms and whatever else is flushed down the toilets that isn't liquid*.

On this fateful day we had gone into our cabin for break as usual. I got out the book i normally read and the can of diet coke that i had brought with me and proceeded to try and transport my mind out of the usual shit hole of work.

I had sort of semi succeeded in doing this when the chain man surprised us all by presenting us with a cup of coffee made with his own fair hands. As soon as i saw this alarm bells started ringing. This dickhead never made coffee if he could help it especially not for me. As a result i studiously ignored the steaming cup of liquid while my co workers all slurped appreciatively.

The chain man was getting more and more agitated and i will never forget the look on his idiotic face when the site manager came into the cabin, saw the unattended cup and drained it in one go (as he usually did cos he was a bit of an arse too). His self satisfied smirk soon turned to a gagging retching noise as he reached the bottom of the mug. It seems that chain man, seeing his revenge at hand had filled the bottom of my mug with crap off the drying beds and topped it up with coffee.

Although the site manager wasn't made ill he failed to appreciate the subtlety of the joke and the chain man was soon on his way to doles ville. I have never doctored food or drink since cos the consequences don't bear thinking about.

* you got a lovely crop of tomatoes about two weeks after laying it down

Length? About a dirty inch from the bottom of a mug?
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 2:37, 4 replies)

Readers Digest presents
the condensed QOTW.


Someone upset me once.

They forgot how incredibly spiteful and passive-aggressive I was!

Also I probably made it up.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 23:56, 3 replies)

If this QOTW generates a decent post, I'll eat my hat


...unless one of you fuckers has spat or jizzed in it first.









See you next Thursday
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:07, Reply)

The Strike of "The spice Man!!"
Two summers back, me, and 30 or so of people I went to school with decided to go on a camping trip in celebration of completing our final year of compulsory education. The decided camp site happened to be on a pub's field, which I lived next door to (and by next door I mean it was the closest building to my house which is 1/4 of a mile away).

So the day came around, I had instructed my friends to walk down to my house once they had arrived, and we'd take some logs from my garden up to the field. As you can imagine with there being around 30 people, there was a blatant social divide, (me and my friends made up only around 30% of this divide), so at 7 O'clock there was a knock on the door and 8 or 9 people waiting on the step, we pick up the wood and start to walk up to the field. "where's Mitch" I ask along the way,
"Ah we left him in the tent to look after the food and booze, in case 'the others' try anything".

So we arrive at the site, where Mitch informs us that two people from "The other group" did in-fact, try to enter the tent, not knowing he was in there. "The fucking bastards! did they say anything Mitch?"

"Just said 'oh sorry wrong tent' and then left!"

"Bollocks, they thought they were in the wrong tent! They we're trying to steal our drink".

We were livid and wanted to do something, but we were smaller in numbers, and it was Mitch's word against theirs, so we said and did nothing about it.

So later that night 'The other group' got a phone call from a friend who had just arrived at the near by train station, and didn't know how to get to the pub, so rather than give directions, they decided to walk to the station and collect them. So off they went to the station (and no exaggeration ALL of them went, why it takes 20 odd people to collect 1 person from a train station I have no idea). This was our chance to strike revenge, the original plan was just to try and drink their booze before their return, but me and my close friend Aaron had a much more sinister idea! "Guy's wait a minuet, if they come back and see that we've drunk their alcohol, they'll just get pissed and take ours, we have a better idea........" Aaron announced to the group. The plan, was to spike their drink with hot sauce, not just any hot sauce, but Fucking rip your head off, descend into Dante's ninth circle, and stare in eyes of Lucifer himself, hot sauce!!! This was one million scoville hot sauce (for those of you who don't know 'scoville' is the measurement of the heat of chillies, Tabasco sauce is a mere 2,500). So with the plan in place we set it into action...

Aaron and I made haste back to my house where we put a few drops of the stuff into a small tupperware pot, while the rest of our group scuttled through "The other's" drink in search of a suitable bottle. Upon our return Mitche passed us an unopened bottle of white wine, Aaron smeared the sauce all around the rim of the bottle and hurried back into their tent and put the wine bottle back in place. We all agree that we will all take the fall no matter how smaller part we played in the operation, and then got back to grilling sauseges.

Eventually "The others" returned, we waited for it........ and waited for it......... "any second now".........
"They'll get to that bottle soon!"......... "Aaron you DID put all of on there right?"........
"Would the spicy-ness of it be diluted by the wine?"..........
"maybe they just put up with it not to give us the satisfaction!"..........


And then finally after two hours of anticipation..... "Oh my God!!!!! *cough* THERE'S FUCKING *cough* SOMETHING IN THAT WINE *cough* *gag* WHAAAAAAAA" Sophie, ones of the girls from "The other group" had took a swig of the wine, and was now panicking that there was poison in it and was now crying partly through panic, mainly through pain (Ok so I do feel a little bad that we made her cry). Me, not being the best person to keep a straight face, ran off trying to hide my laughter.

Once I had calmed down I returned and by this time mass panic had set in, Sophie was still crying and now with a small red rash around her lip's and her friend Bex was going through peoples bags, Ash (Bex's boyfriend) had figured it was us, and surprisingly found it hilarious and was playing along with it. The rest of the guy's from "The other group" were tasting the wine trying to figure out what was in it, some wincing in pain others exclaiming "That's fucking LSD someone's put in there" and
"That tastes of nicotine" (seriously nicotine? c'mon) and Emma (bit of a drama queen) was telling people that she'd seen gypsies on the field next door (which there weren't) and she could swear she saw "A man in the bushes holing a testube and laughing" (which she hadn't.....I hope).

Amazingly most of the cretins believed Emma's bull shit story about "The Spice Man" and sat huddled in their tents terrified that A gypsy would turn up and force feed them hot sauce.

unfortunately we had to come clean in the end because Bex wanted to call the police on this imaginary chillie based, now super villain.

The moral of this story is, don't go in other peoples tents or "The Spice Man" will hunt you down, and spice you!!!
(Madlyinsane, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:21, Reply)

Another bored at uni story...
During a regular hungover day hanging around in our student flat, it was decided that we'd had enough of living in what was effectively a bin.

The rotting chicken giblets on the floor needed to be removed, the furry wok that was last used a month previously needed a small scrub, the variety of now-green foodstuffs in the fridge had to go, the fridge itself needed to be fumigated, and the 9 months of daily grease needed to be extracted from the oven.

Out came the 4th hoover of the year after the others had all been broken, and an attempt to somehow clean the carpet and six sofas we had arranged around the room (for duvet days obviously) needed to be made.

The 'boob wall' was to be taken down, and the rotting mango juice from 'the mango fight of 05' had to peeled from the walls, along with the various tea bags stuck to the wall in a random game of 'who can get a tea bag to stick to the wall for the longest'.

After a heroic attempt at all the above, the 4 of us brave warriors decided a sit down was in order, and my good friend Mark decided it was time for his Iceland meal of the day.

Now Mark is a peculiar character, and has his ways and methods of doing things. For instance, he would always eat the bulk of his healthy meal, have a brew and a cig, then go back for the chips and peas.

It was at this point, whilst we were sat down around the telly, that he had his little break and the food sabotage occured.

Sat next to him, and with the hoover still in close proximity, I wondered just how powerful the suction was on this particular model.

Very, the answer quickly appeared to be.

In the space of a few seconds, the lit cigarette, a mug full of coffee, and a plate full of peas and chips had all been devoured by the unlikely destroyer in my hand.

His face went from utter content to extreme panic as his 3 loves were taken from him in the blink of an eye.

Then we had to get hoover number 5, they don't appreciate liquid inside them. Messes with the electronics I guess...
(gin'll fix it, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:15, 6 replies)

Simple but effective
How do you exact subtle vengeance on your fat lummox of a flatmate who keeps stealing your booze and staple foods?

Why, you substitute her Slim Fast shakes with Build-Up.
( Bad Horsey Bring back Dr. Ubes Rub!, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:38, Reply)

A pearoast from another qotw (Well, that taught 'em)
"I shared with two students, and it was always the same; whenever it was near to paytime, my milk *and only this* would disappear.

One of them, John, was a lovely bloke but allergic to nuts. John makes tea. Soon after, John starts swelling up.

ME: Runs, administers epi-pen. "You're going into anaphalactic shock."
HIM: "How do you know?"
ME: "I put almond oil in my milk."
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:04, 6 replies)

Derserved
I lived with a few guys who loved to take on drunken challenges, i'm guessing to prove how 'hard' they were.

One night this involved eating/drinking stupid or disguting things. Creative, hmmmm.

I challenged them to eat a tablespoon of salt and wash it down with a shot of vinegar. To be fair to me, I honestly didn't know that replacing the salt with bicarbonate of soda would make them vomit as much as they did. But it wash fucking funny.
(el perro grande, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 23:01, 1 reply)

I haven't but my brother has
When he was younger, I would say around 13 there was a little twunt that lived across the road, he would tease my brother, beat him up and steal any sweets he was carrying. This didn't last very long mind you as my brother got a crafty idea.

Back then you could buy big bars of laxative chocolate having very distinct packaging. He bought one of these, along with a 200g bar of dairy milk. He carefully opened both bars (one being chocolate deliciousness, the other chocolate-like ring destroying awfulness) and swapped the packaging before sealing them up again.

Needless to say the twunt across the road saw my brother later that day, roughed him up a bit and stole the dairy milk, leaving behind the laxative wrapped bar.

After a trip to the hospital the twunt’s parents were banging on our door, screaming and shouting about how my brother had tried to kill their darling son by giving him laxative chocolate. It turns out he ate the whole bar before his mother got home and chastised him for ruining his dinner, 3 hours and many ruined pairs of underwear later he owned up to eating a bar of laxative chocolate, saying that my brother gave it to him.
( Maximinimus you stick around I'll make it worth your while, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 15:43, 2 replies)

This sandwich tastes salty
There was a particularly detestable young lad in our junior school who used to give a mate and I a lot of grief. He was a bit bigger and on the odd occasion would help himself to stuff from our lunchbox with only a punch as a way of thanks.

During the course of the term my mate was unlucky enough (or lucky depending on how you view this story) to have a nasty fall on his bike. He managed to scrape the whole side of his leg and it left a huge roasty (in layman's terms that's a large scab). One evening in the bath the moisture of the water caused the scab to come away from the skin slightly. My friend then pulled it off and was left with a lovely round specimen about 8cm across.

Being of the age where something such as a scab is something not to be wasted he decided to bring it into school the following day. We hatched an ingenious plot and that lunch the scab made its debut on a cheese and ham sandwich. By placing ourselves in prime location for the arrival of the aforementioned bully we were able to engineer the situation so that he ate the scab sandwich in its entirety. Never before and never since has the act of being bullied provided me with such a massive amount of satisfaction.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:26, 2 replies)

Whinging Haggis
Not sure if i may have already posted this particular tale of Scottish woe here before but just in case.... here goes...

back about 15 years ago, my mother ran a hotel which catered for students going to the local college. at once point we had one particular student who was very vocal about EVERYTHING. Complaining about anything he could lay his eyes on and basicly being a pain in the ass to everyone in the place.

People were generally sick to the back teeth with him. Not just my mother and the staff but the other residents aswell.

Enter me, with a truly disgusting scheme which involved a Durex and a tin of Pedigree Chum.

My mother approached him asking him if he would like to hve a traditional Haggis for his dinner one night. His face lit up and he eagerly accepted the offer. BRILLIANT! Time for my plan to spring into action.

I took the condom and opened the tin of Dog food and proceeded to fill the Jonny with chum. after knotting the end I placed it into a pan of cold water and gradualy heated it untill it was hot throughout.

After allowing it to cool for a few minutes, we served it up to him. How my mother kept a straight face I have no idea, but the plate came back empty except for a few shreds of burst latex.

About 2 days later he was told what he had eaten. needless to say.. the complaining stopped. and he moved out couple of weeks after.

Every Dog has his Day. Unfortunately our dog had to make due with a steak for his tea that night.

Length TROJAN
(Phoenixx1973 Will be campaigning for the "Vote Saxon" party., Sun 21 Sep 2008, 10:06, 3 replies)

Okay, KIND of on subject
Also a military college tale:

One of the things we used to do when we were Freshmen was to 'mustard shoes' of Upperclassmen that were particularly twattish.

Basically, when you are at a military college, particularly the one I went to, SHOES are a VERY big deal. Shining shoes was a CONSTANT fixation. While reading for class? Polish your shoes. While listening to music and relaxing? Polish your shoes.

Every day at formation, your shoes were checked...Freshman much more thoroughly than the Upperclassmen, but you get the idea.

So, during lunch, we sat at these long 'Viking-esque' tables with a Senior at each end. The tables were wide enough that, if you were careful, you could low crawl underneat the table if you were EXTRA-careful to avoid nudging or bumping someone's feet along the way to avoid them becoming aware of your presence.

So, take one squeeze bottle of ketchup, one squeeze bottle of mustard and one jar of honey, slip beneath the table while noone is watching and low crawl your way to the end of the table...careful to avoid the feet of the classmates and upperclassmen on either side until you reach the Senior (who, for the record is 75% likely to be an absolute jackass!) and then, with great joy (and terror) liberally squirt the contents of the mustard, ketchup and honey ALL over his PERFECTLY shined shoes.

Then, this is the hard part: back up.

It works. It RUINS weeks and weeks of shining by eating away at the wax in the polish and literally, they have to start ALL over again.

After you've safely extracted yourself, as inconspicuously as possible make your way to the PA (Public Address, I think you call it a Tannoy) System and announce, for ALL the other cadets in the room "MR ROBINSON! CHECK YOUR SHOES!"

Then, run like hell for the doors.

Sure, there will be beatings, hazing, threats, being singled out by that Upperclassman, but frankly, it was WORTH it.

Citadel
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 6:30, 5 replies)

Not exactly sabotage, but...
As student, worked in a hotel in Aberdeen, and was regularly pissed off by big-headed yanks. (Better than being pissed on by them, but that's not relevant.)

So, some yank big-shot arrives at 11.00 pm, and demands that the restaurant stays open until he eats. After a leisurely shower (what a ****) he wanders down.

I'd managed to persuade one of the senior chefs to stay on, and the yank decides to order off-menu. (Double arse.) He says he enjoys Mexican food, but nothing too spicey, and would like whtever the UK equivalent is.

Right.... Chef whips up a pretty mean Chicken Korma, mushroom rice and something like a naan. I had a taste, the chef having confirmed it was unadulterated, and it was bloody good.

Served the yank the curry (unmolested) and scuttled off to cover for the departing chef. After a sweet, the yank admitted he thoroghly enjoyed it, tho' admitted that the hotness was just at his limit (wuss.)

However, as it had taken too long to prepare, he wouldn't be tipping us, so we could learn a lesson about customer service.

Sabotage / Revenge ? Sadly lacking so far, but he did ask us what sort of curry it was. Hopefully, thereafter I do hope he asks for Chicken Vindaloo hoping to emulate that wonderful one.

Ringpiece Revenge I hope.
( Tepid_Halibut felt like a cold, empty shell of a human...until, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 13:35, 3 replies)

More Uni hi-jinks
Back in the "House of Fun" at uni we did once play a trick on one of the guys (J for those who have read the blood story)and it is food related.

J used to eat a lot of chocolate spread sandwiches so we got an old jar, washed it out and painted the inside a chocolate colour, taped a party popper to the side then taped the string to the lid (ensuring just enough slack to tolerate being screwed on and off).

Next time J came to make a sandwich he picked up the jar, unscrewed and pulled of the lid and BANG!

He literally threw the jar against the wall and thankfully not us as we were laughing so hard we were incapable of moving.
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:05, Reply)

My old Dad
is getting really annoying in his (now pretty advanced) old age, and of course I do not sabotage his food. He manages that himself.

I imagine the thought processes that led to his latest abomination went something like:

"I'm hungry. I'll have some haggis" (Opens tin of Grant's Haggis, puts in saucepan to warm up).

"That doesn't look like much... tastes a bit bland..." (opens tin of crabmeat, adds to gunk in saucepan)

"Now then, I can't be bothered with neeps and tatties... I'll just have it on some toast" (roots around in breadbin).

"Damn, no bread! I'll use these teacakes instead!"

So, haggis+crab served on a toasted teacake. I visited him 4 hours after this and his flat still smelt unbelievably horrible.

He told me later that it gave him terrible wind.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:57, 1 reply)

That's not a tomato!
I was at a beer festival a few years ago with a bunch of mates. I was well known amongst the guys as a lover of spicy food so when one of the flock shouted me over to try the organisers special "hot" pickled onions, I wasn't too concerned. After eating a whole one without any obvious reaction, he suggested I try one of his spicy tomatoes – indicating something that looked like a very wrinkly, bright red tomato. So imagine my surprise when the damn thing turned out to be something called a "Scotch Bonnet", one of the worlds hottest chillies ... Not to appear wimpy, I ate the whole thing. I found out afterwards that even the maddest of people don’t eat the seeds. And here is why;

Within 10-minutes I was feeling quite rough; I couldn’t feel my mouth and lips at all and had escaped to buy milk. Four pints of milk later and I started to get stomach cramps, with the inevitable vomiting soon to follow. I was drinking pints of water and then throwing them up all night. I eventually fell asleep about 3am, but was woken with a violent fever and more vomiting which gently alternated into fountains of liquid shit. By 8am, after nearly 12-hours of vomiting, shitting, fever and headaches, I finally started to feel better, although I still couldn’t eat.
It took about 2-months to get over.

Laugh? Oh, yeah. Dead fucking funny.
( Linbox has a serious dunk habit, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:48, 5 replies)

Things in pints
weve all done it- dropped a penny into your mates pint when he isnt looking. Typically when they went the toilet.

a few years back this went a little too far.

It started off as Pennys, then peanuts then crisps. At which point the object was clearly visible - but the joke was the recipient of the prank would 'ignore' it and drink the pint anyway, gaining many kudo points for finishing the pint off - more so if it was downed in one.

More objects were used as the pranks continued, Mccoys (big crisps) beer mats, £5 notes, pens. credit cards. Bascially the rule was it had to be more outragious than the last one, and the perosn drinking it would have to pretend not to see it, then act surpised once the pint was finished.

One day one lad came back to his pint to find a mobile phone in his pint. (this was a few years back - it was a Motorola. Brick sized phone circa 2000) It barely fitted in the pint, and made most of the lager spill onto the table.

My mate simply shrugged his shoulders as if he didnt see the phone and downed the pint. Then acted surprised when the mobile fone slid out of the pint onto the bridge of his nose.

the game stopped when someone put someones wallet in their pint.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 13:00, 5 replies)

Vegan
My friend Henry put beef into my friend Sam's special vegan yoghurt but made very little attempt to disguise it. Whilst very simple it was also rather amusing when Sam returned from the loo and said "Henry is that beef in my yoghurt?" Excellent.
(SpongyMonkey is an honorary East Anglian on, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 23:09, Reply)

A little wine can give your posh grub a bit of a ‘kick’ …
Yonks ago, when all this were fields…I used to host student type parties where the usual type of drunken debauchery would ensue. Good times.

One of the dead-cert invites to this party was a friend of mine called Vlad (don’t ask). He was a carrot chopper by trade but liked to dabble and experiment (with cooking…well, maybe other stuff too – He hasn’t told me).

To be fair, he was (and still is) a fucking good chef and the reason he would always be invited to parties was that he would cook us all something brillo when we were all shitfaced. Result.

One particular time the party went on…and on…and Vlad had long since passed out before the munchies overwhelmed us. When they finally struck, we woke the bugger up and ordered him to step over the puking / copulating / unconscious couples and sort us out with some chow. He went to the fridge and there wasn’t a lot, He went to the freezer..slim pickings. He checked the cupboards…not great.

So he decided to do what any self-respecting resourceful chef would do…he improvised and announced he was going to make ‘something’ with the stuff lying around.

He found some beef chunks, carrots and mushrooms…nothing wrong with that (apart from the sell by date)…but that was just the start…

He then added something like:

Chilli Powder
Mustard
Boiled Rice
Few herbs, spices and wotnot (I don’t know – I’m not a chef)

At this point he decided it wasn’t ‘moist’ enough, so he dropped in a splash of red wine. When we complained about the ‘waste’ of good wine, he explained to us plebs the qualities of ‘infusing’ different tastes and how we philistines could not understand the value alcohol could add to a meal.

So, we took him at his word…he was the expert after all…and as he wandered off looking for extra knives etc (because chef’s use a different knife for every cut apparently), we tiptoed around the sleeping partygoers and relieved them all of their partially finished drinks. Thus went into the mix:

Lager (at least 3 different kinds)
Cider
Bitter
More Wine (red & white)
Guiness
Scotch
Vodka.

Then we added:

Tobasco sauce
HP sauce
A Beef & Tomato Pot Noodle (pre-cooked, half masticated)

It was all swished around and left to simmer for an hour or so.

Then we grabbed Vlad, got him to serve it up...and we all tucked in.

It was absolutely.fucking.beautiful

I can’t explain it. It sounds more foul than drinking strained shit through Mo Mowlam’s gusset liner but the thing just worked. It wasn’t just me…everybody thought so.

Also, because Vlad was incapable of cooking in small quantities we had enough to last us about a fortnight.

If only I could bear to part with the alcohol I might try it again one day.

Food sabotage… sometimes it can surprise you
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 12:07, 3 replies)

at uni
As an impoversished student, I just couldn't afford to be buying a new carton of milk every day. So I pissed in my own milk and - hey presto - I was drinking only about half as much thereafter! Job done.
(frankspencer, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 11:12, Reply)

I like to cut out the middle man....
....and just shit on people
(bobman500 enjoys a grope as much as the next fella, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 16:51, Reply)

I had a friend
who had come into rather a lot of money midway through life and he was rather showy offy about it. He came round my house for lunch a while back and asked for a jam sandwich. I was a bit fed up with his boasting and showing off, so I thought I'd sabotage his food in a terrible, terrible way.

You see, instead of using the jar of nice strawberry conserve, I put tesco value jam in it. I know it was harsh but his attitude was really abrasive and he just pushed me over the edge.

Anyway, when he bit into the sandwich he immediately noticed. Unlike the posh jam, this jam was absolutely smooth with no bits in it. This made him think of the smoothness on the rapidly balding tires of his dad's old Lada, and when they were driving down a snowy country lane one night in 1979. The bald tires caused the car to crash and his dad was killed.

His eyes welled up and he ran out of the house. I've never heard from him since. I feel really, properly guilty.


...
...
...
...oh fuck off. I have absolutely nothing for this week. And my story is as good as any, it just lacks a grounding in reality.
(GONEism, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 14:31, 2 replies)

At School
My mate offered me a jelly bean.

"What a nice act of generosity" I thought.

It had an unusual rubbery texture, but I shrugged it off and took a bite anyway.

The bean burst and my mouth was showered with a disgusting fishy liquid.

Turns out what he had done was bring a load of cod liver oil tablets into school, and placed them in an empty bag of sweets he had bought.

Took me forever to get rid of the taste.
(scazy_lumbag, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 11:28, 2 replies)

ah cuddly old tramps....
Many years ago a friend of mine worked on a building site here in Ireland. It was slightly before the dawn of safety passes and 'restricted personel only' signs were prominent. Basically most building sites were meeting places for many, shelter for some and even workplaces for a few hardhatted tea loving paddies.

One of the afforementioned shelter seekers was an elderly tramp who used to kip in one of the rooms at night. The lads on the site used to give him a cup of tea in the morning, when they were having a few themselves, to set him up for his days tramping about in the world before returning again to the site for his nightly slumbers.

He was a pleasant chap and full of stories and had become something of a site mascot and was dearly loved by all. This love that kept old scruffy warm was however ripped from his hide, one fateful morning when one of the chaps arrived into the tea room to see the dirty bastarding fuck of an old cunt standing over the hot water boiler and provider of tea for the masses with a slightly surprised look on his face , a ladel in his hand . . . . .'a busy stirrin' his underpants.

Fucker had been washing them weekly there and didn't really cop the connection between the faucet and said boiler.


length - about .00022 of a second before dubliners were treated to the site of a tramp with no underpants sailing over a building site wall - Sleeping privelages revoked.

side note , jeesis that one fucker might have been the reason sites are so picky about who goes on them now.... hmmmm

sidenote 2 - about a year since my last post... I probably owe a few stories after all the reading I do here :) watch this space..
(The Cats Twat, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 22:48, 2 replies)

my bondage slave was being obnoxious
so I replaced my urine with tea.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 21:22, Reply)

Wee and Poo is Tea is so unoriginal...
I'd love to say this prank was mine, such the originality and simplicity of it.

Mike, for that was his name, was drinking his tea in the Tesco staff canteen. A lovely cuppa, he tilted it back, only to see in the end of the mug was...


A whole salmon eye, staring back at him.

Was he sick? Yes - violently! Huzzah!
(Roddimus_Prime Should be revising, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:19, Reply)

I was once gifted with a Swedish automobile that had been owned by a chap called Clement, the grandson of an esteemed psychologist.
Unfortunatley there was a mix up with the delivery address, and it was instead sent to a mausoleum in Agra, India.

Yes, I ended up with my Freud Saab at Taj.

Ahahahahahaha oh god please kill me.
( Lightguy hail satan, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:05, 1 reply)

Sugar, sugar.
I get a bit fed up with people moaning about how shit the QOTW is every week.

But, this one really is, isn't it?

Oh well.

I will try.

During holidays from Uni, I worked in a very posh hotel in Essex (yes, such things do exist in Essex, I promise).

And I nearly choked Alan Sugar to death.


It's OK though, because he is a right canute.


The Amstrad head offices are just 5 or so miles away from said hotel, and during my first week of working there, in bowled ol' canutey bollards giving it 'the big I am' in front of his staff (I have no idea if Nick & Margaret were among them, they weren't famous way back when) Which is ironic, given he is such a squat assed bar steward.

He demanded (not asked for, not requested, but demanded) expensive wines and drinks for his table. So off I trot like a good little waiter.bar gimp and provide him with the tip top most reds and whites from the list. Then gin & tonics, beers, cocktails, soft drinks etc. All dutifully delivered to his table.

I get grunts and demands to 'put that there, no NOT there' and so on, but nary a hint of a thank you.

Finally having given him everything he wanted, I trot off back to the bar and pour myself a stiff drink, fuming at the rude old codger.

When suddenly he steams up to the bar, holding his wine glass towards me with one hand and what looked rather like a shrivelled, dripping foreskin in the other.

And slowly it dawns on me...earlier I had cut my hand on a broken glass. I was new to the job, no body had told me about the blue plastic plasters that you are supposed to use in food environments, so I'd slapped a band aid on it and carried on.


I looked at my hand. The gaping, still bloody wound across my knuckle was visible, not hidden behind the plaster.

Of course it wasn't.

Because now, my bloody, dirty band aid was being waved in my face by a furious Alan Sugar, claiming that he had just pulled it out of his beardy twat mouth after taking a swig from his glass of red wine without looking.

I did what any sane person would do. Hid my hand behind my back, Apologised profusely through barely stifled giggles.

Then blamed a waiter.

OK, so its not technically sabotage, but its as close as I've got.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 12:05, 1 reply)

So a few years ago, in my travels,
I came across a bald man that wanted a battle of wits. There were two goblets of drink before us, and I took a packet of powder from my pocket, and emptied it into one of the goblets, whilst his back was turned.
The man said, “It's so simple. All I have to do is divine from what I know of you: are you the sort of man who would put the poison into his own goblet or his enemy's? Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet, because he would know that only a great fool would reach for what he was given. I am not a great fool, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But you must have known I was not a great fool, you would have counted on it, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”
“You've made your decision then?” I replied.
“Not remotely,” he said. “Because iocane comes from Australia, as everyone knows, and Australia is entirely peopled with criminals, and criminals are used to having people not trust them, as you are not trusted by me, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”
“Truly, you have a dizzying intellect,” I returned.
“Wait til I get going! Now, where was I?”
“Australia.”
“Yes, Australia. And you must have suspected I would have known the powder's origin, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”
“You're just stalling now.”
“You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? You've beaten my giant, which means you're exceptionally strong, so you could've put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But, you've also bested my Spaniard, which means you must have studied, and in studying you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”
“You're trying to trick me into giving away something. It won't work,” I said.
“IT HAS WORKED!” he yelled. “YOU'VE GIVEN EVERYTHING AWAY! I KNOW WHERE THE POISON IS!”
“Then make your choice.”
“I will, and I choose - What in the world can that be?” He pointed behind me, distracted me and switched the goblets, the slimy bastard!
“What? Where? I don't see anything,” pretending his ruse was had worked.
“Well, I- I could have sworn I saw something. No matter. First, let's drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours.”
We both picked up our goblets of wine, and drank our fill.
I said to the man, “You guessed wrong.”
Clearly overjoyed at my apparent gaff, he jumped up, shouting “You only think I guessed wrong! That's what's so funny! I switched glasses when your back was turned! Ha ha! You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha ha ha..."
The man fell over and died. For you see, they were both poisoned. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder. And that was how I survived the food sabotage.
Sincerely,
Westley
(w4I4q1O1 was hard at work on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:43, 10 replies)

Some comedian or other suggested it.
I cooked a vegatarian couple a lasagne with real mince in it, they said it was the best they had tasted and asked how I made it taste so meaty.

Now I know I shouldn't have but I simply said, "with meat" I was drunk by then and thought they'd see the funny side. Jane spewed up there and then like I'd flicked a fucking spew switch.

Mark, a closet meat eater expressed his faux concern and berated me though I though he was gonna crack up laughing any minute.

Mark still talks to me but Jane blanks me everytime we all get together. So it was a good result because I never liked the fucker anyway, hemp wearing fucking hippy.

Which always makes me wonder to what lengths us blokes will go for a regular shag because Mark lies his fucking arse off to her and talks the same shite she does in her presence, but happily sits with us in KFC before a movie either like she never existed or the chickens are quorn... strange.
(Doogie Talons, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:41, 15 replies)

hubris - via much pink c on on the red flowery t's
This tale is spun from the glorious days that were home economics/ food technology/ cooking lessons / whatever name it is the government gives to the double period where children can legally be placed in a room filled with sharp pointy objects, hot things and hormones and left barely supervised.

The being charged with looking after thirty of us in one year nine class was a Mrs. Lovejoy. I don't think sharing this matters as regards identity, she is bound to have left now anyway as what I am going to relate happened many moons ago. Plus it has to be one of the more inappropriate names for a teacher. Anyway, it's probably the fate of most teachers to be singled out for something for which they can easily be mocked, somewhere along the line. But this particular teacher made it very easy.

Tights.

Yep, that simple. Maybe not that funny or clever but effective nonetheless at keeping us entertained amongst ourselves. Maybe we were just that bored, or the heat from all the ovens had a strange effect on us. But every day, come hail or high water she would wear some pair of strange/ novelty / decorated tights. There were the relatively normal black fishnet ones with a flower pattern, but then there were the red chessboard pair, the stripes ... the tights and sandals in the summer... an old spin on a British holiday classic.

So where is the food in all this? Very well placed as it happens. In fact, it wasn't so much the food that was sabotaged, as the food that acted spontaneously on the behalf of some very grateful pupils to do the act itself.

Perhaps another truth about teachers is there is always one thing they will nag you on. Well, Mrs L was very hot(sorry...as you'll see) on the subject of heatproof gloves. Almost to the point of compulsion ... even to carrying things in a cold bowl that had been standing for ages!

Then came the day when we were each making various desserts. Everyone was doing their own thing as second period started and Mrs L was bustling around helping. She came up to the lucky soul who was making custard. This was not just any custard, this was Barbie's finest luminous pink, extra thick, instant custard. And it had been in the microwave for a good few minutes as Miss (plus tights) trotted up.

*Beeeeeep* I am at the table one over at this point, I hear a joking comment about the need for ovengloves made by a class mate, before I hear the immortal and soon to be fatal riposte sound from the lips of Mrs Lovejoy.

"I don't need oven gloves: I have asbestos fingers."

...

And so, flying in the face of all her own advice she removes the chalice of Barbie pink, extra thick custard from the innards of the microwave, bearing it triumphantly to the adjoining work surface. Until, seconds later, the rudely awakened Barbie pink, extra thick custard bestirs itself indigantly and communicates sharply via the old-fashioned but still sound means of the nervous system that yes, yes it is too hot and she might like to do something about it.

She does. Drops it. (Or more accurately, launches it decisively) Bowl flys to the floor and smashes. Love-ing the Joy of its new freedom, the Barbie pink, extra thick custard seeks to drive its lesson home - it heads instinctively for where it knows the damage will be personal, searing, lingering.

Seconds later there is pink custard all over her favourite tights, as well as the floor, work surface, table and, somehow, the microwave by now several feet away. And not only that, but her favourite pair: red and flowery this time. And yes, if anyone needed convincing that red and pink clash, there it was emblazoned in hot custard-searing glory.

There was an instant awestruck silence. She gazed round the room as thirty pairs of eyes shone back the reflection of her own hypocrisy, her pride reduced to the shattered shards of a standard school glass mixing bowl. Sabotage by custard, and literally by her own hands.

And there I shall leave her, standing in the dim mists of my memory ... later having to face the poor pupil whose custard it had been, and as a final insult, having to make a replacement batch. I can't remember what the custard was even supposed to be gracing. But things changed after that day, we never forgot... And yes she still wore tights, but more importantly, she always wore oven gloves.
(treaclebriggs, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 0:24, 1 reply)

So one lunchtime Michael Winner came into my restaurant,
Unfortunately, it was a particularly busy lunch shift and I didn't have time to wank in his soup. He sent it back, saying it 'tasted funny'.
(The Oscillating Gibbon is eating curried squid, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 23:21, 2 replies)

We put party popper charges in a pepper pot once
Someone banged it on the table when they couldn't get any pepper out and they nearly choked to death and couldn't see for about half an hour.

I also went through a phase of swapping the paper stuff in party poppers for foodstuffs. Horseradish sauce was particularly good and it looked like spunk when it landed on someone's dinner jacket.
( thistle, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:28, 4 replies)

This is why I avoid fast food.
I've long been aware of the FDA's mandatory maximums for certain substances in mass-processed foods, but I never thought much of it. It's probably impossible to juice five thousand tons of oranges daily without getting a few fruit flies in the mix - up to seven per serving, by federal law. And they allow exactly one-point-seven maggots per four-ounce serving of tomato juice. It's an interesting factoid that's acutely fun to bring up over breakfast, especially if you've the misfortune of dining with a snobby vegetarian (and who can be one and not the other?) who gives you a heavy dose of attitude about eating bacon.

... like pigs are good for anything else?

Thing is, government-imposed limits tend to become standards. Minimum wage is set so that even a mop jockey can make at least enough to give his wife and fifteen kids a subsistence-level living - but most end up making exactly that much. Likewise, the maximum amount of fecal matter in hamburger is meant to ensure that a quarter-pound hamburger (notice I didn't say "Quarter Pounder," so you can just go McSue somebody else) contains no more than 1.5 grams of bovine fecal matter, but - as you've probably guessed - they contain exactly that much. Giant meat-packing operations employ a team of engineers to test and tweak every batch of ground beef to ensure it contains exactly the right amount of excrement, no more and no less than federal standards.

... like biology majors are good for anything else?

It makes sense in only the kind of way an accountant, or perhaps a vegetarian, could understand: If the cost of beef is $1.89/lb, and if Americans consume thirty billion pounds of fast-food hamburger each year, then the corporate burger industry can collectively save $204 million by meeting federal guidelines. And so, while the good government intention (ha!) behind all of that was to make sure that the meat-packing industry went to great lengths to ensure cleanliness, what it really turned out to be was a license to feed the American public about 180,000 metric tons of fecal matter every year.

And that's a lot of shit if you ask me!
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:56, 3 replies)

bit of a pea
As chronicled here: Evil Pranks, I used to be a bit of a cunt to a flatmate, Jon, at uni, mostly by sabotaging his food in ways that I thought he'd figure out, but more often than not, being something of a mollycoddled lad, he just ate the horrible stuff.

Some examples:

One of my other flatmantes was diabetic and had hypodermics in abundance. I used a syringe and spent a couple of hours sucking orange juice out of the fresh, sealed box he had bought and replacing it with vinegar.

I hollowed out a mr Kipling Apple pie (he loved the miniature ones), cracked an egg into the pie casing, microwaved it and then stuck the pie lid back on, and carefully resealed the box. He ate it while drunk and though noticing something was wrong, continued to lick the bowl clean.

Replaced custard powder with flour and wept with laughter when he just couldn't figure out what was wrong.

I think the crowning achievement was hollowing out an apple and filling it with hundreds of tiny balls of plasticene. He absolutely shit himself with that one.

Yes I was a complete twat. But an ingenious and patient one, I like to think... He got me back though. He had been putting tiny pieces of pages from the bible into my food every day. He fed me Genesis...
( BlueHaze Chutney. All good., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:51, 2 replies)

I am too poor to be able to buy food just to tamper with it...

And I have no enemies or friends on which to play such an hilarious prank.

But I just HATE missing out on a QotW...so for you, gentle reader, I came up with a plan...

Despite my next door neighbour being a lovely bloke and causing me no harm whatsoever, last night I crept out and cut the brake line of his Mondeo.

How's that for a bit of 'Ford Sabotage'?



/coat
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 24 Sep 2008, 20:48, 6 replies)

Tobermory, Isle of Mull.
Small Island town in Scotland. Not really a lot to do..
Basically, a Seagull was drugged with Vodka, Painted or dyed bright Green and Pink then released to go about it's business.
Locals named it the Balamory Seagull as Tobermory is where the bastarding thing was filmed. Tourists on the other hand..'Is it a parrot??' Etc etc...It lived what I can only assume is a ripe old age for a seagul.
So there.
(Sir Clitherington Smythe offers him yourself., Wed 24 Sep 2008, 19:18, 1 reply)

packing
p0zitr0n reminds me of a job i used to do.

Not quite sure if this is on topic but ahwell.

I used to work in a factory making confectionary products, chocolate, dohnuts, fudge.

My dad worked at the same place, and from time to time we would work on the same line.

He had been there for a while longer so he was in charge of production, i was in charge of packing.

so at times, I am afraid to say I packed fudge..... with my dad.... and was paid to do it....

I was packing my dads fudge

100% true - but only in the confectionary sense.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 13:09, Reply)

Syrup of Ipecac
I managed to score myself some Ipecac when I was last in the States inspired by an emetic episode of Family Guy.

When I went to visit my parents back in the UK, I decided to finally get my brother back for the time he filled my (manly)bubble bath bottle with vomit. There I was, sitting in the bath, and I plop out a half a bottle of stale and decomposing vomit into the bath and on myself. What a dick towel he is, I thought.

So anyway, at breakfast time, I swapped the label on my brother's bottle of cod liver oil with it, and sat down and waited.

He came downstairs, had a spoon of it, and then started to make some breakfast.

After about a minute and a half, he literally monsooned vomit all over the kitchen.

Brother 1: powervator: 1

Incidentally, the best part of all is that he forgot it made him sick and it happened again about a week later in front of my mother. My mum was convinced that he was on 'ecstasy pipes' she told me on the phone afterwards.


NOTE: Ipecac is a violent vomit inducing medicine
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 11:44, 2 replies)

Kind of in keeping...
... but not.

When i was around 15-16yrs old i had a friend named fats and he would eat a packet of fruit pastilles without chewing (it can be done) and then a group of us would take a bet at which colour would come up first after he put his fingers down the back of his throat.

We no longer call him 'fats'
(Reservoir Ducks, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 17:13, Reply)

The unfortunate victim of food sabotage. Sort of.
My dad's a jazz/blues musician and lived through the sixties so it pretty much goes without saying that he's fairly fond of a bit of green, as are most of his old musical-type buddies.

Anyway, the story starts with me joining my dad to see Baj, a bassist friend of his who had unfortunately developed Multiple Sclerosis and it was starting to take it's toll on him - as such he was perscribed medicinal cannabis to help alliviate the symptoms.

It goes without saying that he'd been smoking it on a regular basis for the last thirty years and this medication meant he could use some of his normal supply for something else.

So he baked a cake. Just a simple chocolate sponge, but absolutely laced with weed. An evil plan hatches in his mind and he gives my dad an enormous grin which transmitted the nature of the cake and his intent. My dad, bless him, gives a wry smirk and nods assent.
Baj offers me some cake.

Had I been a little older I might have been suspicious of it. Unfortunately for me, I was seven, and here I was, being presented cake! Chocolate cake no less! I had about half of it, greedy guts that I was.

So obviously in a short space of time you've got a stoned seven-year-old tearing around the house while the two guilty parties silently crack up into their tea. I came down in the car on the way home, and dad got a bollocking for allowing mother's little boy to get higher than a stratospheric kite.

I don't know about length, but it was about ten inches in diameter.
(Sundayturkey has the biggest mug of tea, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 15:50, 4 replies)

Spider tea.
My sister inadvertently made me and my friends a lovely steaming mug of spider tea. As there was a few of us she decided to use the big tea pot that had been standing around in the cupboard for years. We were all none the wiser until my friend mark suddenly made a noise like "Garrrkkkkk" and then spat something back into his cup.

There, floating in all its huge Garden Spideryness, was a nice plump brown arachnid. Then as one we all looked at our individual cups and experienced the same gut churning thought. "I've just drunk spider tea."
( Smithlick is often seen at the bottom of threads, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 9:37, Reply)

Brown Sauce
Back when I was nothing more than a mere 7 year old I was far from being the most popular kid at school. Something about genuinely enjoying learning and wanting to do something with your life when you're at the local council estate primary gives you a license to be killed.

Council children, as you know, are evil gits. While most people don't take pranks beyond a certain level, the kids at my school would have happily killed for a Ryan Giggs football sticker and a cheap laugh (I'll save that for another QotW).

So I was the brunt of many insults. The chief source of this was a guy called Michael. He was ginger and didn't know his Daddy, so this guy was practically leaking macho insecurity on me on a daily basis. His specialism was screwing around with my lunchbox. It didn't help that we had the same lunchboxes, so he typically got away with stealing my sweets.

One day tensions were getting high. After solving a couple of Maths problems in class which had the rest of the kids rocking back and forth in their chairs I was targetted to have my food ruined for being a smartass.

Michael, in an act of youth terrorism which got him expelled for 4 weeks, decided to replace the contents of my chicken sandwiches with the toilet dregs left over from strong bout of diarrohea (wipe the bread on the bowl; use your imagination). Much giggling was had as everyone waited for me to munch a turd sandwich.

I swapped lunchboxes with Michael that day in a prank of my own, oblivious to the consequences. When the rest of the class hailed me as some sort of evil genius I was amazed at how easily impressed they were. Took me a good few weeks to realise what had happened.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Mon 22 Sep 2008, 13:01, 1 reply)

self sabotage
another tale from childhood.

i was holding a tea party for natalie, tara, mary and guy (you wouldn't have been able to see them, only i could see them) but my parents were in the kitchen so all the ingredients for my spread came from the next obvious alternative, the bathroom.

i made a huge pile of toilet paper sandwiches filled with generous servings of toothpaste. i added colour and texture with a gravy made from two different types of bubble bath. dad's shaving foam was an excellent alternative to whipped cream. all that was missing was a garnish.

after some more foraging for ingredients in the bathroom, tucked in the back of the cupboard, i found the perfect thing. i didn't know what they were, i'd never seen them before. they were small and perfectly round, in all the colours of the rainbow. i looked on the side of the box. b - a - t - h p - e - a - r - l - s. bath pearls? wow, they really did look like pearls. these were perfect.

back in my room, i buried my hand in the cold squishiness of them all in the box. then i dressed each book-for-plate with a few, holding each one up to the light. they were fascinating. you could squeeze them like grapes. they looked like the most delicious sweets in the world, the kind of sweets you'd probably only get in disney world.

of course, my head knew they weren't edible. they were called bath pearls, and i'd already worked out that anything you used in the sink was edible, but anything used in the bath was not. but my mouth and eyes could not believe that anything that looked that delicious would not taste of ice cream or cakes or golden syrup.

of course they tasted like fairy liquid and made me throw up. you should have seen the look on my parents faces when they found me, sitting in the middle of what looked like an industrial accident. i nearly laughed, but i was foaming too much at the mouth.

natalie and the rest of the gang just left me to it. wankers. seriously, you can't trust anyone :(
(threadkiller, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 11:08, Reply)

a long journey
(this is only my second or third post around here, after some professional lurkage, so usual pleas for niceness!)

For several years I have worked as a plumber, sometimes on and off with my brother if the job required. As you can imagine it is a trade rife with oppurtunites for food sabotage.

So this one particular job I went to was at some old place in the middle of nowhere. My brother was nowhere to be found on this occasion, so must have be skiving. The owner was nowhere to be found, but had kindly left me a note on the door.

This old place was in fact to all intents and purposes a castle, and in need of renovation. Clearly I was to be left to get on with the job, so started trying a few doors, but many of them were locked.

Then, and this is where my memory gets a bit hazy, I found a door that opened I suddenly found myself in a strange space, which I presumed be more of the castle grounds. There was this huge black dog like creature chained in a yard, that I had to be careful to avoid. There was lots of money to be found lying around too, which is perhaps how I was to be paid. A cash in hand job, which suited me fine.

It soon became apparent that to leave this strange courtyard and return to the castle I had to get past this big black guy. He didn't talk much, but the implication was I could be in big trouble if I didn't get passed him. Thankfully, I re-discovered how athletic I could be, a bi of a surprise given my rotund figure, and soon found myelf doing all kinds of jumps. Suffice to say there was a bit of a scuffle, I saw stars by the end of it but soon found mysef back in the castle.

What to say about what happened next? It turned out that what I thought was going to be a two / three day job tops, turned into a months then year long task in which it seemed time itself became meaningless. I was now acting excuslively for the client, as it seemed there was some guy trying to muscle in on her territory. I never knew that the world of plumbing could become so perilous.

Or give me so much oppurtunity for travel. Although the castle remained my base as more of its doors opened, I was taken to many strange lands away from it. Many more cash in hand jobs.

There was that time I experienced what I now call extreme plumbing, where I arrived in one world and had to dive straight in to a deep ocean and help clear an old wreck. Other times I got to ride what I can only describe as a relative of Nessie through vast underground caverns. Who would believe my stories once I returned? My brother could have helped me, but he was nowhere to be found as I went to more and more exotic lands, fighting my way past creatures I never imagined existed. There was the site of the ancient pyraminds where I almost got sucked into the sand, then there was my long months spent in a hostile icy world helping with a penguin wildlife conversation project, amongst other things. I never knew that penguins could be so easily seperated from their babies, but it was a good laugh, and I even raced one of them.

It wasn't all fun and games though. This guy trying to muscle in had a tough shell, was hard to crack and had many friends who were well-connected enough to make things difficult for me. Every land I visited there was something new to confront. Some of the lands were so unreal, if I told you about them you would probably think I was on something, but I swear there were magic carpets and strange ceatures who changed size at different times I visited.

The tough-shell guy even appeared himself a few times, liked stamping a lot. Finally, on the third time I met him I confronted him and defeated him for good. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, all the castle was open, and I was finally able to meet the client in person!

And so I returned from my epic and surreal journey, from the lands of hot and cold, the dizzying heights where I flew through the air, the chilly lows where I could drown or fall at any moment. I was a plumber yes, but i had become so much more than that.

So I got back to the castle, it was a bit of an occasion I thought, but things didn't seem t be quite right. Plumbers have to be make ends meet, there had been all that money, but I wanted a reward, I wanted glory!

Then I remembered the message the owner had left on the door, and suddenly was left in no doubt I had been slightly cheated.

"Dear Mario, please come to the castle. I have baked a cake for you.

Princess Peach"

What was to be my reward?

Cake! That was it! Sabotage! 120 stars, endless red coins, three versions of Bowser, those dratted penguins and all I got was a cake.

I did get to lava-surf though, which was cool.

I'd like to say I sabotaged the cake by putting chilli in it as the "Princess" as she called herself, ate it.

But no, I am a gentleman. So me and my new oriental friend Yoshi, simply grabbed some 'shrooms and went on a trip in the crazy rainbow world above the castle. Perhaps it will cheer you slightly to know it's a tradesman who feels he has been sightly conned for once.

I'm not Polish no, but I am Italian.

It's me, Mario!

(I am v v sorry. This is my personal tribute to an awesome N64 game, on which I spent many happy hours wasting revision time. Great game, but thought the ending was a bit rubbish.)
(treaclebriggs, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 13:28, 2 replies)

Eye eye
Years ago (back in the days before 'puters when entertainment…. blah blah) I was at school in a dreary northern backwater.

The food was, typically, dreadful vacillating between fried and tasteless and boiled and tasteless.

Oh yes and the star of the story, Semolina served in vast glass bowls.

The general rule was that you ate everything you were given. There was no discussion (nor were there any special diets, any meeting of religious requirements, humouring of vegetarians or anything else that could have been considered a display of individuality).

On this fateful lunchtime we had just finished double physics during which we had had the delights of dissecting a bulls eye (not the northern minty hardboiled confectionary but the things that boy cows use to see girl cows) and we descended upon the canteen for hearty victuals.

The menu was something like “Fried crap followed by a vat of semolina. And jam.”

At this point, one of the ne'er do wells on my table dropped a rather ill looking bulls eye into the glistening and pristine surface of the semolina from where it viewed the ceiling of our cafeteria with a rather bored cyclopean stare.

After much guffawing and other public school type merriment, a volunteer was press ganged into taking the bowl back to the rather fearsome looking Queen of Dinner Ladies.

"Please Miss" sayeth Oliver 2, "there's something in the semolina".

Expecting fainting and/or hysterics the onlookers were somewhat disappointed when the hairy paw of the Queen reached into the bowl, retrieved the eye and sent Oliver 2 back to the table to "Eat every last drop".

We did.

Curses.
(Mediaslut, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 2:48, 7 replies)

Not sure if it's sabotage
Someone at Uni used to write on his milk cartons "I've pissed in this milk", so nobody would try and steal it. Except that someone else would then write "so have I".
(meat2veg hello!, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 19:00, 2 replies)

Pizza Hot
When I was a student I worked in a Pizza place. We made the whole thing from scratch, bases, tomato sauce and whathaveyou (obviously not the toppings though). At the end of shift we were allowed to take any pizza of our choice home. We usually finished quite late in the evening. A girl who I worked with would frequently have her pizza stolen by her flatmate because she would leave it in the fridge to eat the next day.

As soon as I discovered this the course of action to take was clear - lots of tabasco at every stage...

The pizza base had tabasco poured into it even before it was left to rise, a small amount of tomato went into the alleged tomato sauce mixture, the rest substituted with tabasco. Her usual veggie toppings were soaked in tabasco before being applied as toppings. And after it was cooked more tabasco was added.

We had to burn it slightly to hide the fact the base was a little pinkish and hope that once cold it wouldn't really smell of tabasco.

It worked. There was only one piece missing which was found in the bin along with the rejected bite taken from it. The c unit.
(crand _.-~stupid ascii thing~-._, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:17, Reply)

It might be an urban myth but...
...I heard some bastard was putting meat on the shit in Big Macs.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 12:44, 1 reply)

Sometimes it's just the thought that counts.
First up, I'm a wee bit of a food snob. Nothing over the top and nothing I shove up other peoples's noses - its just that I have principles re: food; and fast food is very much against those principals. That said....
Sometimes, maybe 3 or 4 times a year, nothing else will *do* but some hideously delicious KFC. I know it will make me feel sick afterwards and make my whole throat feel like I deep-throated a grease-trap...but, dammit! That crunchy salty chookiness is, well, I'm sure the majority of you know what I'm talking about.
Anyhoo, given my obvious conflicts regarding my guilty pleasure, it would follow that my mood is somewhat ~combustive~ when I climb down from my ivory tower and duck into the chicken joint.
One such memorable occasion, I pull into a drive-thru' on my way home from uni. And the queue is loooong. I'm already having second thoghts about sitting there and sucking exhaust fumes when this utter fucknuckle in an earth-hating ford F250 complete with cnuting CARAVAN (Australia is littered with these twats. 'Grey Nomads' they call themselves, cruising the beauty spots of the country, towing their dreary cliches with bumper stickers that proclaim 'I'm driving my children's inheritance!' Baby Boomers are selfish cocks.) decides that he has to absolutely join the queue IN FRONT OF ME.
Seriously.
Queue jumping in a freaking drive-thru lane! I briefly toyed with brazening it out and trying to out-manouver him..but he was possessed with a large fuck-off roo bar on his front end and I drive a wee small 2 door mitsubishi. Eyeballing me and sneering with his overfed, over-made up, smug slapperwifey laughing beside him while I helplessly (but rudely!) gestured and beeped my squeaky little horn he just kept nudging in...
Right.
Fuck this and fuck HIM.
So I peeled out of the queue, parked up, and actually entered the store. What a weird experience! The queue of cars outside in the drive-thru' had to be at least 15 cars(and one cnuting caravan)long, but the store itself was empty. Hah! I win! I place my order, get my grease and am out the door *just* as CaravanPig has pulled past the little box where you are required to scream over the static and place your order. Where the the lane closes in as it passes the neighbouring building. Where escape is no longer an option. Where there are still a good 7 cars in line before you.
I knew what needed to be done.
Swinging my bag of goodies in a carefree manner, I smiled and waved to the person in the the drive-thru' window. I didn't know them and they didn't know me, mind, we'd had no interaction at all, but hey, Perth is a friendly city and they politely waved and smiled back. so it looked like I knew them. It looked like we might be in cahoots...perhaps sharing a joke :D
Sauntering down beside the cars in the drive-thru' I stop at CaravanKnobEnd's petrol wasting penis extension and, smiling gently, tap on his window. He lowers it about 10 cms or so and snarls "Yair? Whawt?"('coz he is an arrogant arse) I grin sweetly ('coz I'm made of fucking sugar and spice) and say "WE didn't spit in your food. Honest!" And then i got into my wee car, waved and smiled once more and drove away.
I hope he enjoyed his repast. I certainly enjoyed mine, but felt a bit ill after. As usual.
(St Sepulchre's Belle tolled for thee on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:52, 1 reply)

My best friend was a bit odd
He lived in his third year of university with an irish guy called Danny. Before I ever met him, my friend told me how Danny had slighted him somehow, and so he'd pissed liberally into Danny bottle of whisky that he kept in the kitchen.

A few weeks later I met Danny at an unrelated event, we ended up chatting and really getting on. We go back to Danny's for a spliff and he says I have to drink a whisky with him. I tell him I'm not a whisky drinker, anything to put him off, but he's insistent.

What could I do? Betray my friend's confidence or drink his piss?

Reader, I'm ashamed to say I chose the latter.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 20:03, Reply)

You want to do real food sabotage?

Use strychnine.
( Gerbilinafishtank Gerbil in a fish tank...TURTLE POWER!, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 18:41, 4 replies)

I like the subtle approach.
When I was at uni as an adult, we had a dean retire and another take his place. The old dean was a nice fellow, one with progressive ideas on how to run an engineering school and an attitude of cooperation and compromise with his professors. The new dean was a gladhander, but extremely conservative in his views and rather dictatorial.

As you can imagine, he was not well liked.

This new dean had a beer stein from his alma mater that he used as a coffee mug, and I for one found it rather grating to see him strutting about with the logo from our main academic rival clutched in his hand- but he was arrogant enough to believe that we should be emulating that school, so this was lost on him.

One day as I went to the vending machine for some chocolate I noticed a familiar stein on top of the machine. I quickly grabbed it and hid it in my bag.

Did I damage it? Did I wipe something foul inside it? Of course not- after all, I'm a mature adult.

Instead I put a little water in the bottom of it and left it standing beneath a urinal in the most heavily used bathroom in the building.

I don't think I saw him carrying it around ever again...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 18:13, Reply)

Doughnut death
One of the presenters at a radio station I worked at was a complete and utter twonk. A really annoying pecker who had a picture of himself as his computer backdrop.

Anyway, we had some doughnuts kicking about in the kitchen and he was being a right prick about him having the last one.

So, using a splendid combination of cunning and my intimate knowledge of doughnuts I decided to play a little prank on him.

I gutted a biro and poked the straw-like empty case into the little hole they put in the side to inject the filling and sucked the strawberry goo out of the middle. Quite literally 'taking the jam out of his doughnut'.

I wasn't finished though.

We often ordered in food from a local cafe and their fishcakes always used to come with a couple of sachets of tartar sauce, which no one used to eat.

I snipped the top off a few of the packets, poked the leaky end into the doughnut and injected the contents into the jam's place.

He bit into it and, being the massive egomaniacle cock that he was - refusing to admit he'd been got, finished the whole thing.

What a nob.

This trick also works for a tasty treat. Poke the nozzle of squirty cream into the same hole they put the jam in with and unleash hell. Awesome.
(MrKipling43, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:52, 1 reply)

I am so so so so so sorry
I can't stand it, I know you spiked it
I'm a' set straight, this tuna pate
I can't stand cooking when I'm in here
'Cause your meat ball ain't so meat clear
So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking pain in my side
Oh my god, it's a vomit barrage
I'm tellin' y'all food sabotage

So listen up 'cause you can't bake nothin'
You'll shut me down with a spoon of your mutton
But I'm out and I'm gone
I'll tell you now I keep it on and on

'Cause whats on the menu you might not get
And we can bet so don't you get souped yet
You're scheming on a thing that's a mirage
I'm trying to tell you now food sabotage

Why
feeling weak from my vomit barrage
Listen all of y'all food sabotage (x4)

I can't eat it, I know you grilled it
I'm a' set straight this tuna pate
I can't stand rockin' when I'm in this plaice
Because I feel disgraced because you puked in my face
But make no mistakes and switch up my channel
I'm buddy rich when I whack off in the fridge
What could it be, it's a mirage
You're scheming on a thing, food sabotage
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 25 Sep 2008, 14:04, 7 replies)

Dog breath...
...my ageing, but still well loved, Boxer dog always runs up to meet me and jumps up eager to lick my face. I wouldn't mind but he always has a turd-snack first.

Today, I snuck around the yard clearing up all his turds while he had a nap.

That'll fuck him good and proper.
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 18:32, Reply)

Fucking Tescos
Ok, so last night I went to the Albert Hall to go and see Jason Mraz. It was a marvellous gig and I learnt that he has some batshit insane fans (which may be fodder for a future QOTW). Anyway, to avoid travelling through the night to get home I decided to book a cheap hotel in Kensington, stop overnight and come back the next morning to work a 2-8 shift (which I am currently on).

Now because I wasn't sure when the gig ended, I decided to pop in Tescos beforehand to get some sandwiches etc to eat when I got back from the concert. I also picked up a 1 litre bottle of Tescos own version of Red Bull, which has a slightly higher caffeine content. I do have rather high blood pressure at the moment but I figured a wee glass in the morning would get me out of bed and off to the coach station without too much harm (caffeine tends to do weird things to me so I have to be careful).

So anyway, I get into my (frankly grotty) little hotel room, crawl into bed and try and sleep. It wasn't going too well since my head was still buzzing slightly from the concert. I came too with a dry funky mouth and as a kneejerk reaction reached to my bedside table for a drink (as I'm sure most of you keep a drink on your bedside table). However, being rather out of it from tiredness I just grabbed the first bottle shaped thing and downed it all in one go. A litre of it, to be precise. I then realised I'd just drunk a litre of this ridiculously high caffeine drink in one go and suddenly realised what was going to happen to me that night.

Now please bear in mind that I don't smoke, do drugs or drink, so caffeine is about the only chemical experience I ever get. Within an hour my left side was tingling and shaking. I spent a solid hour walking round the bedroom. Then I spent another hour playing tetris on my phone, beating my previous high score by a ridiculous margin.

Then I tried to sleep, but for some reason every time I did the number 96 flashed brilliantly in my head. I honestly have no idea how my body is wired up but after 20 minutes of this I was hyper and freaking out at the number 96.

In the end, I sat up and watched all the early morning educational programs. I learnt lots about Skihism and Buddhism last night. I finally got to sleep at 6.45am, only to have to get up again at 8.30.

So I am currently sat here at work, sleep deprived and spinning on my chair to try and stay awake.

Yes, it was my own bastard fault for drinking a 1 litre bottle of a cheap Red Bull knock off. But I'm still blaming the cunts at Tesco for making 1 litre bottles and putting more caffeine in it than Red Bull, AND charging less for it.

On a side note, if there are any Sikhs on b3ta, may I just say you have a most excellent religion. If I wasn't such a cynical, hate filled husk of a human being I'd ask for a membership pack.

No apologies for length or dullness. I'm tired and cranky.

*EDIT* Just to any conspiracy theorists bored enough to doubt the validity of my story - I have next to no taste thanks to growing up with smokers, so I generally just taste "fizzy". The lack of taste also means I own a Deacon Blue tour shirt. Yeah, ok, that bit was a lie.
(GONEism, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 17:43, 12 replies)

My Social Networking Gaff
is posting replies to QOTW a week too late
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 12:30, 3 replies)

Hangover revenge .
After an extremely heavy night in our Uni bar I retired back to my girlfriends flat and proceeded to pass staight out on her bed. This being any normal weekday I awoke to the cramped conditions of her single bed and room stinking of fags, booze and me.
The usual pillow talk commenced...

Me:arghhhh I'm soooo hungover, can't see straight, sooooo thirsty...get me some juice or water
Her: No way, I already got up in the night to get some...its your turn
Me: Oh go on,please,I drank so much more than you, I Promise to go next time..etc etc...love you(the oldies are the best)
Her: Fine but your getting up next...

SWEET...space to stretch out in bed, with the promise of refreshing liquid to wet the fag induced desert in my mouth...and if I'd played it well enough, she almost always made toast...back to sleep again for the time being.

5 MINS LATER she comes back through the door and I half open my bleary eyes...

Her: We only had apple juice left, but I also made toast.

(Mental high-five to me) No time for pleasantries, I grab the glass and swallow the contents whole...but, oh god, its not apple juice. Its fucking Olive Oil!!

Queue retching and trying to puke back up the horrible grease lining my throat, why simultaneously feeling my head spin from drunken dizziness.

Her ( lying prostrate in doorway crying her eyes with laughter):APRIL FOOLS!

What a bitch..full credit where its due though.




She also put eggs in my shoes on dissertation deadline day, I'm not sure what the reason was there?!?
(seamstress_to_the_band first time writer, long time lurker, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 22:12, 1 reply)

Had a housemate who drank milk straight from the carton
if it was HIS milk, I wouldn't have minded, but NO. IT was MY milk, the filty, backwashing bastard.

So in goes vinegar, lemon juice, shampoo, basically any liquid milk-curling condiment sauce I could find. Back in the fridge it goes.

Only took about half hour after he woke up that morning to hear gagging hack from the kitchen, and running to see him standing there with millky puke half way up the cupboard and sink.

"this milk is off! I'm just ducking out to get some more"

Fuckin' oath, you are!
(phantomjack Tue 20 Mar, 3:18, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 2:52, Reply)

Bread sauce?
Work Christmas dinner, about three years ago. They used to hold it in a local hotel, and although the canteen-style serving was perhaps not the classiest, everything was cooked to perfection (plus you could leave out the bits you didn't like, and have more of the bits you did).

They always had beef, turkey or a veggie option - personally I don't think it would be Christmas dinner without turkey, so the beef wasn't an option.

Now when I was a young 'un, we always had bread sauce with Christmas dinner - a lot of people have never heard of this, but look it up and try it - it's basically milk, flavoured with an onion, bay, cloves and pepper, thickened with breadcrumbs.

Imagine my delight then, when I spotted a huge pan of bread sauce. Grabbing the ladle, I poured the stuff all over my plate, making sure every bit of dinner was soaked in clovey bready goodness.

Yup, it was horseradish - I sabotaged my own Christmas dinner.
(Photon wasting your time since, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 23:49, 5 replies)

Time for a confessional (sp)(dgaf) looks right to me
I was once married to a harpie. An evil,vitriolic ball of hatred. Night after night I endured such a belittling torrent of abuse and scorn that, quite frankly, I'm amazed thet I'm still here.
On more than one occasion I got the means to end it all, and I thank zob, I never plucked up the courage. And eventually managed to get my head around the notion that the kids would be ok and escape.
In retrospect the one thing that kept me going was her drinking habit. Not that she was any more pleasant after her nightly 2/3 bottles of white wine. That made no difference.
It was the fact that a urine top goes unnoticed in a glass of cheap white plonk.
A barrage of abuse would issue from her lips, whether or not the kids were in earshot, and then she'd take her fill of my piss, and for a split second life was worth living.
I haven't had the chance to browse, and if my story is repeated, good on ya mate.
(smalldickedandproud, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 21:15, 2 replies)

The Mystery Of The Sneeze Chalice
*POP*

Once upon a time I had a boss who was a very bad man. He was ignorant and unintelligent but attempted to disguise these facts by bullying all of the staff under him. During the short time that he was boss (he would later develop a debilitating stomach ulcer) he reduced two of my colleagues to tears and actually reprimanded me for trying to console one of them.
Clearly this fellow needed to be taught a lesson and I felt that I should be the teacher. The first lesson involved rubbing a clove of garlic around his keyboard, mouse and contact-lense case which would have been unpleasant even if he HADN’T been allergic to the stuff.
When he was able to return to work two weeks later I enacted my second revenge upon him, the revenge of…The Sneeze Chalice.
See, I have a very sensitive nose and as our workplace was a tad dusty, I used to have a bit of a sneezing fit every morning at my desk (yes I’m one of those people who can’t sneeze without following it up with nine or so more sneezes). The Sneeze Chalice itself was a simple cup and every morning I would sneeze into it until a month’s worth of sneezes had collected in it (perhaps as many as 150 individual sneezes). The inside of the cup looked a bit manky but it wasn’t encrusted with snot or anything like. The smell though…ye Gods the smell!
Have you ever smelled a cat’s sneeze? They’re quite disgusting, musty rotten smelling things if you haven’t had the experience. Well, that smell to the power of five hundred was an accurate description of the disease-laden stink which emanated from The Sneeze Chalice.

Well, one day I made him a cup of tea in…yep…the Sneeze Chalice. I gave the contents a sniff and although you could tell that something wasn’t quite right, the tea smell masked it well. Nervously I presented him with the tea as my in-the-know colleagues retched at the thought of what was about to transpire. He took a sip and…pulled a face like he’d just had a mouthful of piss!
He looked straight at me and said (I kid ye not) “You haven’t put any sugar in this!”

One sugar later and he was gulping down hot sweet tea, seasoned with over a hundred congealed sneezes.

That wasn’t the first or last horrible thing I did to him, but it was certainly the most vile.
(bridge_troll, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 20:40, 4 replies)

jews and bacon
we lived with a jewish guy at uni who was not only opinionated and obnoxious, but crazy secretive like a rat. he used to double lock his room at all times even when he was in it, he'd peer round the door at you with great suspicion if you DARED to knock, and was continually screaming at people for leaving dirty dishes in the kitchen (which he did himself.. we'll gloss over the rancid milk smell from his room for now)

well, one time, he went berserk because a housemate was sick into his massive (and dusty therefore unused) casserole dish, rather than sully the carpet and lose our deposit.... see? a jew with poor financial awareness... exception to prove the rule perhaps.
we'd all basically had enough of being called cunts on a daily basis by this hypocritical little shit.. he thought we were all uneducated and common because daddy drove a merc and wor armani suits..

he was less than impressed the next morning to see that i'd baconed up various assorted items, like his butter, his ice cream (double whammy, milk and meat AND evil porkyness) and was merrily frying bacon in his milk pan he used for his warm milk (yes, warm milk before bedtime)



oddly, he was less than relieved when i 'fessed up.

it was vegetarian bacon aka fakon.
well, i'm not a freakin monster!
besides.....





i'd never waste REAL bacon!! that right there IS a sin.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 17:52, 4 replies)

My mother is evil.
But on two occasions, it's been entirely deserved.

The first time she sabotaged food, it was my brother's: he was only about 6 years old, and had just finished reading "Green Eggs and Ham" by Dr Seuss. He was obsessed. He would demand green eggs and ham for every meal, throwing tantrums when it wasn't presented to him, and generally getting up my mother's nose.

So one day, she used a bottle of green food dye and served my brother with a plateful of bright green ham, and two bright green fried eggs. Apparently he took one look at them, screamed his head off, and never demanded them again. 1-0 to mother.


The second time, I was the victim. Again, I was quite young (7 or 8 methinks), and being a complete brat about food. Aubergines and sprouts were "yukky", I'd refuse to look a tomato in the eye, and I was convinced that lettuce was a weapon of an evil child-killer. A shame, then, that my mother's favorite food was ratatouille...

Again, she was sick and tired of me being a picky eater, so thought that if she could make food interesting a daring for me, then I'd be more likely to eat it. She was very nearly right, but just went that little bit too far to make it look "authentic".

You see, she'd told me ratatouille was made out of real rats, and was utterly delicious. Unbeknownst to her (but knownst to me) this scared me. A lot. But I couldn't let her know that. If she'd been aware of just how terrifying I found the idea of rat stew, she might not have gone ahead with the rest of the plan:
She lovingly ladelled me a bowl of the stuff, then carefully cut up some brown rubber bands and arranged them so they were dangling over the lip of the bowl. She then called me into supper, and said: "here you are darling, ratatouille made from real rats, just like I promised! And I've even left the tails in!"

I took one look at this foul concoction, clocked the "tails", and promptly vomited all over the cream carpet. Oops. Mind you, I was never as picky about food again, so I guess that ended up as 1-1 to both of us...
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 16:50, 2 replies)

Sabotage with food (with appoplogies to fuckarma)
My friend Long Tall Harry got himself banned from his mates house for this.

During a drunken house party LTH found his friends' chilli plants, including his rather poky Dorset Naga. Now, in his drunken state he decided it would be the funnest thing in the world to try out something he'd read on the internet and started to pick all the lovely little berries he could.
After he'd gathered enough he poked holes in them and put them in the microwave. Now, as soon as they were done enough he opened the microwave door and ran. Ran like fuck. 'cause very soon after the kitchen was filled with homemade tear gas.
Apparently the resulting cloud was enough to reduce grown men to tears and much worse. "Agony" was the phrase used by quite a few, it gets in your eyes and down your throat and burns like a lava mouthwash.
Harry was persona non grata for some time after that, and he is still not allowed near the house.
Please, do not try this at home.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 16:44, 5 replies)

Food Sabotage
Spitting in tea is too much like hard work, you have to stir the gob until it goes. I find it best to wipe my arse with a teabag and then use it.
(TomJoad, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 13:52, Reply)

this guy
once looked at my pint all funny. I followed him home, killed his wife and children with an angle grinder, ground them up with some glass, and fed them back to him one teaspoonful at a time in his tea. He never noticed and I had a right laugh.

True story.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 10:47, 2 replies)

Mine sweepers
You know the kind, you leave your pint untended while going for a piss or to chat up a lass, and some sod has made off with it.

There was a regular at one nightclub, who we all lost many a pint to. My mate nudges me one night to point him out and the pint he was carrying, saying "that's a pint of my piss"
(Wize, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 22:56, Reply)

Thom's story
I must warn you - you will probably hate me after you read this.

I had once this really weird friend. Let's call him Thom.

He was ranting all the time about some sort of world conspiracy and how unreal everything around us is supposed to be.

He was a real pain in the ass with his constant mumbling and every time we met, he made some smart-ass remarks about reality and life and so on.

To round it up, he barely came out of his place and spent all the time in the net chatting with other freaks about his fantasies.

You probably know the way in which sad and lonely net geeks behave.

With the years, he was becoming more and more obsessed, and finally one day I decided to have a little fun with his mania.

So I configured an IRC account over a web anonymizer and found him in the channel where he was normally hanging out.

Then I pretended I was someone else and told him all the stuff he was talking about conspiracies etc. was true and if we would meet I would prove it to him.

He really fell into it!

We arranged a meeting and I talked another friend (who was black) into offering Thom two different skittles I had previously injected with some first-class acid and telling him that if he would swallow one of them he would understand everything.

The sucker did swallow the red one and couldn't come off the trip...

The asylum personnel said now he's talking all the time about some evil robots with tentacles and crowds of identic men wearing black suits and sunglasses.

Poor bastard, I guess I'm going to Hull.
( Zhmei HEY B3TA I WAS ON YOUR DINGY ISLAND AT LAST!1!, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 17:05, 3 replies)

eggs
A few years ago I was in Yemen, following the coast from Oman. Despite what you've read about Al Qaida and nasty arab gentlemen, Yemen is probably the friendliest country in the world, but it is tribal, so you need guards with you. They're really there just to vouch for you with the local tribes rather than have to do any real guarding, but they are armed to the teeth. As is everyone in the country. But they will let you have a go with their Kalashnikovs if you ask nicely, and even the anti-aircraft gun on the back of the pickup too..

Anyway, we were camping in the middle of nowhere on the beach, when our guide/cook comes over with breakfast for us. He slings his AK47 over his arm and hands us an omelette each.

Now, normally you'd think. 'we're in the fucking desert and have been for two weeks - where the pants did he just get fresh eggs from?' but the heat of the place does strange things to your mind. 50C night and day starts to shut your body down and it gets harder to make connections and do, well, just about anything.

So we eat the omelettes, as do our guards. Tasty.

I finish up and wander down the cliff to the sea try and cool off in the sea, the closest I could get to a shower, and notice distinctive tracks all over the beach. Turtles! Cool. I notice some turtle eggshells that must have been dug up by wild dogs during the night...wait...thoughts begin to seep into my heat addled brain.

We'd eaten probably the rarest omelette ever that morning, made from endangered turtle eggs. Oops.
(inflateable, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 14:08, 4 replies)

you call that sabotage?
During World War Two my grandfather was part of a commando team that infiltrated a German-occupied Greek island, and injected poison into food supplies taken from the Greeks and earmarked for German officers. One of his unit turned out to be a traitor. But they still managed to complete their objective of...the Buns of Navarone.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 3:05, 3 replies)

Pretend Sabotage
I became a vegetarian at the age of twelve, so my mum would keep Linda McCartney pies and other vegetarian foods in the freezer.

Anyway, one evening my mum decided to have a bit of fun with my chavvy little brother by telling him that we only had Linda McCartney pies left and that he would have to have one of those.

My little brother sat on the sofa eating his dinner with his baseball cap on, pulling a stupid face and saying, "Awwwww, this is ****in' disgustin'."

When he finished, my mother produced an empty box from the kitchen and revealed that she had not sabotaged his dinner after all. It was in fact a Bird's Eye chicken pie.
(Small Czechoslovakian Traffic Warden, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 22:54, 6 replies)

Not *exactly* sabotage...
But..

My old house mate at college, bless her..once told us a very amusing story.

As a teenager, my friend was, as are all teenagers, incredibly horny. Her preferred form of onanism was..taking a nice firm carrot from the vegetable drawer, and pleasuring herself with it. Fair enough. Problem was, she did not dispose of said vegetable delight in a humane manner.

Oh no. She would do the deed, then return the carrot to the vegetable area of the house. Naturally, at the family sunday lunch, she declined certain orange-hued vegetables. But her family LOVED them..

Special sauce, with that, sir??
(Carmen Dyslexia, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 22:12, 1 reply)

On how my nose sabotaged my dinner.
I'm not unaccustomed to taking dinner before the television, due in part to me being something of an uncouth lout, but equally as it's preferable to standing at the kitchen counter, in absence of a more suitable location.

I am, therefore, well practised at balancing my plate atop a table mat, which itself rests upon my knees. You may have witnessed such a sight among the other proles that infest this green and pleasant land.

On one such occasion, as I was dining on something-and-chips, as my kind is wont to do of an evening, a sneeze lodge itself within my nasal cavity and rested there, while gathering the energy required to propel itself across the small hovel I proudly call home.

I took the necessary action of running the reverse of my sleeve beneath my nose and continued stuffing my face with vein clogging fare, content in the knowledge that I would be able to enjoy picking the dried mucus from the itchy, cheap material later that evening.

Out of the blue the sneeze decided the time was right, and launched itself from my nose, causing a spasm to course through my body, my legs to twitch and my meal to be sent floorways in horrible, taunting slow motion.

Not content with upsetting my dinner, the sneeze finished what it had started and shot a ball of snot directly onto the now filthy pile of floor food, as though to provide a green cherry as garnish to my ruined dinner-cake.
( Moey, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:01, 1 reply)

Unexpected Horse!
“Tak, Oldemor!” I said, as I arrived in Struer, Denmark, and my Great Grandmother presented me with my birthday present. I had turned Eighteen, and was abroad (and yet at home) on my own for the first time in my life.

I was there to celebrate my Great Grandmother’s upcoming Eighty-Seventh birthday. The big day came around, and the house, nestled deep within Struer’s cobbled streets, was a hive of activity. Cold meats of all descriptions were laid out. Frikadellen were being fried off in the biggest pan I’ve ever seen while røde pølser boiled gently on the stove. It was a true Det kolde bord, and we surrounded the family with lashings of Tuborg and Faxe. The scene was set.

People started arriving from all over the country. Within an hour, the house was full to the rafters, and so it was that we sat down to eat. I piled my plate high and, just as I was about to tuck in to the feast, I noticed a small plate with grated cheese on it, that no-one else seemed to be interested in. Praising my thoughtful family for providing a little something to go with the cured ham, I stuck my fork in.

Taking a good piece of rye bread, I spread a generous helping of Lurpak across it (is there anything nicer than Lurpak on Danish rye?). I put down a thick layer of grated cheese, and topped it with a slice of peppered Danish Salami, and a nice slice of cured ham. It was the king of all Pålæg.

I opened my mouth wide, as wide as it would go, and felt the cool sensation as it began to water. I raised the sandwich to the cavernous opening, and must have pushed around half of it in to my great, fat mouth.

I chewed, my face painted with the dumb expression of one who is being gluttonous and is damned proud of it. I chewed. But it was rapidly becoming clear that something was very, very wrong. Instead of the lovely creamy sensation of cheese, my mouth was becoming hotter and hotter. The colour change that ran up my neck and in to my cheeks and forehead is now part of family folklore. I wouldn’t be surprised if steam had started flowing out of my ears. I felt the bile rising, and rushed to the toilet.

I shall omit what happened in that room, for the purposes of decency. That, and you fine people have been told enough of my vomit in the last few weeks.

I returned to the table, pale of face and shaky of leg, to be met by raucous laughter. I opined that the cheese must be off.

“Not cheese!” said my Great-Grandmother, “Radish of Horse!” Another peal of laughter burst around the table.

“For fanden!” I cried. I had stuffed my greedy face with a thick layer of grated, fresh, horseradish. From that day to this, I have not been able to eat it.

And that is how I was made to vomit by an unexpected Horse!
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 11:49, 7 replies)

When food tampering gets out of hand
Working in the building trade, things tended to happen to food every now and again.

One chap pulled his rolls out one day and bit into one and someone had put a teabag in it, cue face pulling and loose tea spilling from his open mouth. Thinking it was me, I got a surprise the next day when I bit into my lovingly prepared sandwiches and chomped through a dozen matchsticks one of which stuck in the roof of my mouth.

Following day he gets a small circle of carpet in one of his rolls (again not me) at this point we realise who the culprit is. We were trying to hatch a plot, when upon removing an old radiator we found a very flat, dessicated dead mouse. We couldn't, could we? Of course we did, the look on his face, cheeks stuffed with sarnie peeling apart those 2 slices of hovis and peeking in at the dead rodent still makes me chuckle.
(clowns_pocket, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 11:13, Reply)

Milk
At Uni, in halls, milk thievery was rife. I would buy milk, put it in the fridge and it would be gone before I shut the door.

The only way to prevent this was to use a little psychology. Using a permanent marker, I would label the carton "Milk experiment".

No one ever touched the milk again.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:37, 2 replies)

Not sabotage, but mention of the cup of tea in the question reminded me
My sister used to work part time in a shop to earn money when she was a student. The manager was a decent sort, but he tried it on a bit, and used to ask her to bring him a cup of tea regularly.

He always insisted on having the milk in before the tea, as it tasted better, allegedly. So one day, my sister brought him his cuppa, and he turned to her as usual and said, "Thanks, but I hope you put the milk in first, did you?"

Her reply?

"Drink it and tell me".

He didn't ask again after that.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:18, 3 replies)

Way waaaayyy back.....
Many many years ago, before the wonderful world of alcoholic beverages had become a mundane and oft-visited place, the lure of it's bright lights and crazy sounds were all but too much for the budding bag that was me.

My parents, like most other people, had a little stash of booze hidden away in a "safe" place where neither myself of my little cohorts could get to it. Or so they thought.

Our plan was almost genius in it's simplicity:

A:- Wait until my parents were out.
B:- Drink all their vodka.

We awaited the optimum moment then struck. Unfortunately, this is where the plan backfired. Perhaps vodka was a little ambitious for a beginner drink, and we could only manage one each before giving up and feeling ill. This was perhaps more understandable on my friend L's part however, as when I prepared all the rest of us a lovely strong vodka and coke, I had given him a glass of cola with half a tin of air freshener sprayed into it.

My face was too screwed up to laugh as he finished it off in one gulp.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:00, Reply)

Food Sabotage to help my job
I used to hate my job as my boss was a total arsehole.

He wouldn't appear until late and when he did he used to really wind up the locals. Personally, I was left alone as he thought I was a pretty stupid person (which I would probably say is true but sometimes I actually played dumb to avoid being given more work).

Anyway, back to the sabotage.

One day when my boss was incapacitated and his right hand man was running about the place I saw a chance to get my own back on him for everything he has done and switched a bottle the lacky was due to use with a bottle of tomato sauce. Thanks to that bottle the incantation to bring my boss back did not go to plan.

Now instead of spending my mornings disposing of the bodies of blood drained peasents I'm looking after a bloke who sounds like David Jason and enjoys the vegetarian meals I cook for him.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:15, 5 replies)

Do you take sugar?
Back in the days of my checkout-swiping youth we'd take it in turns to pull a minor tea run for one another from the company's dodgy value brand restaurant. Sure, it tasted like crap and even the instant coffee had dregs left in the bottom, but hell, when you're stuck in the same spot for 6 hours before you get a break you'll be desperate for anything someone brings back for you.

We had a dear old biddy called Lesle in our shops who we'd provide caffeine for. She was about 4"8, 600 years old and kept calling me Craig (nobody on checkouts was called Craig, especially me). Leslie is your fully-fledged hypochondriac nutter. She'd take reduced to clear high-end food home to feed her cats while she lived on cheap junk food and wine, and take a barrage of days off with feigned illnesses, including phoning in once to say she'd gone deaf before sprinting to the hospital. Calling your boss to tell them you've gone deaf and come in the next day fully healed would raise a few alarms for the most common of intellectuals, but I'm sure most of you have seen a supermarket manager. They ain't too smart (I abused this bit of knowledge for a full 3 years and have a textbook of tales for it).

Anyway, back to the story. Among Leslie's list of problems was what she referred to as 'mild diabetes'. Leslie claimed she was not allowed sugar. Ever. Sure, she required no insulin and could scoff as much wine, big macs, microwave food and sugary sweets as she wanted whilst smoking like a chimney, but she wasn't allowed sugar. Never ever.

Putting two and two together, we executed a subtle strategic game called "Let's see how much bloody sugar we can feed Leslie". Teas came back with tablespoons of the stuff, ketchup was tampered with until the crystals ruined the texture. We even took the salt out of the salt shaker and emptied a bag of caster sugar into it especially for her. You name it, we sabotaged it somehow.

Of course, nothing happened medically. She didn't explode or die (but she did go deaf again if that's a symptom), but what we'd created was a 600 year old checkout tart so tweaked she won the fastest-employee award for our store 4 months running as she threw barcodes through the system and rushed to help people pack bags. Before I left our store was ranked in the Top 10 for the country and number one in the region. I'd like to think I sweetened the figures a bit.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:09, Reply)

Me 18 month old daughter
keeps not eating her food and trying to take mine off me plate whenever I'm eating dinner. It's a bad habit but she is only 18 months old, so I can't twat her, at least for another 6 months.

So instead, I've rediscovered the fun of eating everything with English Mustard on it.

"Awww, you want a chip do you?"
*Makes sure she can see the yellow mustard I've dipped the chip into*
*feeds her chip*
*Laughs like fuck at the face she pulls as she runs off*
"Do you want another?"

Works a treat :)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:34, 7 replies)

Oh look
another questions which is virtually identical to an old one.

Woo fucking hoo.

I've got a story. I was working in a restaurant. The customer was really rude, so being the sad impotent loser that I was, instead of just accepting that some people are cunts I went into the kitchen and started beating one off onto his pizza.

And he ate my jizz without knowing it! That makes me the coolest person in all the world and he is a person who ate jizz without knowing it! Isn't that jus the funniest fucking thing you've ever fucking heard!

I still work as a waiter.
(Bazongaloid, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:40, 8 replies)

My Neighbour is a cunt
One night, as revenge for all the years of hardship we had to endure from him and his vulgar offspring, I emptied the contents of his green wheelie bin (the one into which goes all your garden detritus, food waste and so forth) over his shiny BMW.

The stink was biblical, and to this day, an uncleanable smear still exists on the paintwork where a decomposing lambs carcass slid gracelessly down to rest in a symphony of congealed fat and effluent.

That'll teach him.
(Vic Flange, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 19:10, Reply)

Doughnuts
Friend of a friend worked in a bakery supplying supermarkets, injecting doughnuts with jam from a big comedy syringe.

When bored, they'd inject the occaisional doughnut with mustard instead.
(p0zitr0n - phunarmically charged particle, detected at, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 12:57, 4 replies)

Food fun and exploding birds
Coasty parts are blighted with foul stinky seagulls - rats with wings, and much more disgusting and aggressive than the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Greed is their thang.

Early adolescent sabbotage attempts included feeding the feathery bastards small mustard sandwiches, then watching them cough and flap about trying to put out the fire.... but later we discovered Steradent tablets. These are the fizzy-when-wet things oldsters use to steralise their false teeth, and can easily be stolen from your grandparents' bedside table.

All you do is put a couple in a bread envelope, and wait for a likely seagull... the unsuspecting victim will eat it's booty whole, in one gulp.

Then you wait.

Typically the gull will puff up like a balloon and fall over comically skwawking and looking like a feathery beach ball... but one did actually explode, blowing a small hole in its crop.

I have yet to combine the mustard (tabasco praps) with Steradent tabs for the ultimate burning-mouth-before-exploding experience.

Seagulls. Bastards. Who needs 'em?
(bastardboy loves his mummeh, but hoo is daddeh?, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 9:28, 11 replies)

only just on topic
and actually not sabotage, more self inflcted, and actually not food but wine.

RIGHT!

Quiet night in last saturday, me and my girlfriend went to bed quiet early and spent most of the evening chatting and reading in bed. (I know, I know, I am a party animal)
I had taken a glass on wine with me. Sometime in the early hours I fall asleep, book still in hand. I wake up about 3.00 am and nip to the loo trying not to disturb girlfriend. I noticed that the glass of wine is still on bedside cabinet.
"Waste not, want not!" I thought to myself as I necked the half glass in one gulp.
Something wasn't quite right,.... should wine wriggle, ... should it tickle the tongue..... Still with the wine in my mouth I looked at the dregs in the glass and it was dancing with fruit flies. Apparently during my slumber every single fruit fly in the nieghbourhood had descended into my glass to have a party. I wish i could say I daintily spat the mouthful of wine back into the glass and not all over the wall and girlfriend.

as I said not really on topic.
(smells-like-victory-v's, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:21, Reply)

never use sauces or condiments without paying attention
or you may sabotage your own food, as i did, by squirting moisturiser onto chicken instead of the yummy salad cream from the squeezy bottle next to the moisturiser.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 22:50, 7 replies)

Oh Ben, What a mess.
I'm in a little known, highly talented ska band which recently got off tour from around the UK. Naturally, with a bunch of 18 year olds on their first real road trip, there was tomfoolery aplenty.

For many of us, having come from private school with very little life experience, living on a budget was proving to be quite a task. But we soon learned how to feed 7 starving mouths with next to no cash, with the help of our little friend Asda "Smart Price", whose aisles were full of wondrously cheap delights, none of which were quite as they first appeared.

It soon became our ritual to locate our closest miracle factory with the aid of our tomtom, troop in with no more than £20 between us, and buy just enough food to survive the next day or so. A favourite of ours was to buy 4 large unsliced loaves of bread, along with 4 whole cooked chickens and then whatever we could manage in terms of cheese or mayo, totalling around £20.

Outside, we'd set up by our van, hollow out the loaves of bread, pull the chickens apart and stuff them in. And there you would have a mass of food at least several times the size of your stomach, which would hopefully last a full day.

Naturally, a meal this size would not be consumed in a single sitting, especially taking into account our shrunken stomachs, so a sizable remainder was always wrapped up and saved for later. I can tell you there were few things on tour nicer than discovering your left over sandwich, when you are cold and hungry, facing another night under the stars.

So one evening, having played a good show at a small venue somewhere in the northern reaches of England, we retired to our van to formulate a plan for the night. Ben [I intend to use his real name as I know he reads b3ta] felt the urge to go back inside for a shit. While he was gone we discovered our left over sandwiches and began to happily munch away. His, in his absence was left untouched, and it was felt an unmissable opportunity to single him out and make him feel stupid.

To first make clear exactly how bad the following really is, I’ll ask you to take into account that on tour, we did not have the luxury of frequent showers. We had the odd opportunity, but they were few and far between. Consequently, we smelled pretty fuckin’ awful.

It was decided that the appropriate course of action was to pass Ben’s sandwich around the group, each touch our arse with it, and pass it on. After one circuit there were six arses effectively IN the sandwich, but this was not enough. When it found its way back to the hands of the original instigator of the sabotage, a questionable character by the name of PM, a challenge was issued from the group for PM to “touch it with his knob”. PM Went one better and fully penetrated the sandwich, with a moan.

When Ben immerged from the building, post-shite, he suspected nothing. The sandwich had been neatly repackaged, and we did our best not to piss ourselves with stifled sniggers as it was offered to him. He took it, and walked slowly about the van as he ate. By the last few bites, we were no longer doing a good job of covering up the hilarity of the situation, and even as we fell about laughing right in front of him, Ben would not be deterred from his delicious sandwich.

With the damage done, there was nothing for it but to tell poor Ben what had been so funny.
There does in fact exist a poorly filmed, dimly lit video in which Ben can be seen still holding the plastic bag from whence the sandwich had come, being informed of his misfortune. The dialogue is something to this effect:

[PM]: [out of shot] So, Ben. You’ve just had a shit. How was it?
[Ben]: Mm, satisfying.
[PM]: And you also just had your sandwich. How was that?
[Ben]: Mm, also satisfying.
[PM]: It tasted good then?
[Ben]: Mm, yes.
[PM]: It didn’t taste at all of cock?
[Ben] *Spaks out and runs about in road*

When he’d finished almost being killed by cars, Ben returns to the still running camera and says something along the lines of:

[Ben]: So what you’re telling me is I’ve practically sucked your cock?
[PM]: That’s right Ben.
[Ben]: Mm. Third base – Score!
(ShitBitch, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 13:09, 4 replies)

Poppers in the smoke machine
used to help the party along.
(happyjoy last changed sig on, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:44, 35 replies)

Party games
Not one of mine, however...

One of my mates told me about some aquaintances at his old uni who used to liven up house parties by playing an amusing little game they liked to call 'hide the poo'.

As the name suggests one would avail themselves of the host's facilities, or possibly bring along one they had sculpted earlier, and then use all of their creativity, ingenuity and cunning to hide their log somewhere about the house.

The rules: the owner of the last poo to be discovered is the winner.

Usually they were found in pretty short order as the participants were always pissed and put them in crap hiding places (pun indeed intended). Anyway, part of the fun(?) was that they were supposed to be found during the party. Ideally by the unsuspecting.

At the end of one party, however, a single poo lay undiscovered and remained so for several days.

When pressed as to where he had concealed it the lad would not say, but it's hiding place was eventually revealed...

In a fit of genius he had lifted a tub of margarine from the fridge, emptied it out and placed his offering inside, put the margarine on top and returned the tub to the fridge.

It took several mornings of toast for breakfast before before the final poo was discovered!
(Dr. Scambolic, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:14, 9 replies)

My ex-wife made me miserable in lots of ways...
...as detailed on previous qotw posts, in fact.

So, just after we'd split up I needed to get all my files off of my old computer (which I'd generously left with her).

We arranged to do it on an evening she'd be late home. She left the back door open and told me she'd be back at about 9, so I got there straight from work, plugged my portable hard drive in and got everything I needed from the PC.

While it was copying across I didn't touch any of her food, jizz in her shampoo, piss in her kettle or anything.

What's wrong with me?
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 1:00, 3 replies)

Parents
My folks are just a tad dysfunctional

My parents were having the usual 6 month long argument which results as usual in my step dad paying nowt towards the running of the house and still expecting to be fed, clean clothes provided etc...

Anyways my mum gets just a bit peeved at this and for his meal makes him a curry.

As I'm no longer living at home I receive a panicked phone call from my sister asking if ingesting a full bottle of syrup of figs could kill a person. It transgresses that my step dad has been in the bathroom for rather along time and is making some rather alarming noises(no not the making your own fun kind).

The answer is no ingesting a full bottle of syrup of figs will not kill you but you will think twice about pissing off my mum.
(DryGoldfish, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 20:11, 2 replies)

Inevitable
My flatmate was into scat.

So I put HP Sauce in his poo.

eyethangyewgetscoat
( calgacus Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 13:20, 1 reply)

When's your dolmio day?
A couple of months ago, my friends and I were "enjoying" the welsh countryside whilst doing our Gold Duke of Edinburgh award. The camp we were staying at was very minimal. No toilets, no showers, just one shitty little water tap.

So when we arrived at camp we started to pitch our tents (not like that you dirty, dirty people)and get cooking. Tonights meal - Pasta and dolmio sauce. The meal itself tasted fine, tasted slightly of meths because the bottle had leaked slightly into the pans but it was nothing major.

Once we had finished we suddenly realised that there were no bins anywhere in our field and none of us fancied carrying our litter with us the next day but it began to seem like that was the only option until my friend suddenly had a brain wave:

"Oi, lads, theres a public toilet about 1/4 of a mile up the road, i'll go and see if theres a bin down there to bring up"

So off he went in search of a bin. About 20 minutes later he returns carrying a small bin.

"Oh nice," says I, "Where was it?"
"Well, i checked the mens and the disabled and there werent any bins in there so i poked my head into the ladies and found this bad boy," he said, waving the bin.

Yes, he had brought a sanitary bin for us to put our rubbish into. Seemed pretty disguisting but faced with having to carry our rubbish around with us, we decided just to put our rubbish into it anyway.

And so we did, posting each piece of plastic wrapping and packets into the rag bin. One of my friends hadnt quite finished his food but decided to just chuck the rest of his meal into the bin as well. The dolmio sauce from the pasta slopped all over the bin leaving large lumps of sun-dried tomato stuck to it.

And that, my friends, is why how we managed to ruin what used to be one of my favourite meals. Whenever I think about cooking some, the image of some woman with a VERY heavy flow comes to mind and I feel very sick.

P.S We actually did put the bin back into the toilets, dolmio sauce et al. I can still hear the screams of the cleaning lady in my mind.
(Foulkesy123 The one and only..., Sat 20 Sep 2008, 12:49, Reply)

Media Plagiarising
I once gave a girlfriend a hot dog which consisted of my erect phallus nestled between 2 hot dog buns on a plate.

"Is that thing a foot long?" she asked.
(Vic Flange, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 9:48, Reply)

Somewhat backfired....
At a summer 'fete' type thing some years back a group of us had slowly become absolutley shitfaced throughout the course of the day.

There were a few dial-a-dunnies scattered about but the queues were horrific.
I was desperate, so I basically placed my recently finished pint down on the floor and filled up the glass with my piss.

It looked exactly like the lager I had just drunk, and so, as there was a hell of a lot of mine-sweeping going on in the pub next to the field (I had lost about 3 pints at that point - this was a scummy town), I decided to place the glass of piss on the bar in the hope that one of the theiving bastards would end up gulping down illicit, stolen piss instead of the lager they had thought they had stolen.

Anyway, it had been on the bar for about 2 mins, and I got a pang of guilt and decided to go and get it and throw it where it belonged instead.

As I walked through the narrow enterance to the pub, a couple of kids came screaming through, being chased by the owner of a pint that they had just attempted to nick, knocked me sideways, and yep, my full pint of warm piss ended up all over me.

Tossers.
(dchurch bah, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:38, Reply)

Bastard chef
My missus worked in pubs as a barmaid for most of her teens (she looked a lot older than she was). When she was about 17, one of the pubs she worked in also did food. It was strictly "chicken ding" type stuff, but it was always fairly busy and she always got to serve on tables, being the youngest.

Unfortunately, the chef (I say "chef" he was the bloke who worked the microwave) at this pub took a shine to my beloved and his harmless flitations rapidly moved through dirty comments straight to outright sexual harrasment. My missus got pissed off with this and told him keep his filthy (and they were filthy) hands off her arse or she'd knock the fucker out - only in slightly more colourful language.

The day after this, I wander into said pub for a crafty free pint and saw my missus had a bandage on one of her hands. Turns out the fucking prick had left a plate on a gas ring for a while, then got my missus to pick it up. She actually still has a scar from this.

Red flag.

He got as far as "you can't come into my ki.." when I nutted him. He didn't actually go down, but he did stagger around the kitchen for a bit, pissing blood all over everything that he was preparing. I wandered back out into the bar and seethed quietly for a while.

Not long after, customers grumbled about their food taking a while to emerge. But emerge it did. I kept an eye on everything that came out the kitchen, not least because I expected a knife-weilding chef to be one of that day's specials, and it all showed signs of having had something spilled on it, then hastily wiped off.

He never hassled her after that, for some reason.
(ScousersPet, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 15:26, 1 reply)

Am I the only one...
...who finds it perfectly acceptable to unwrap lollipops and shove them up my arse, before re-wrapping and handing them out to twunts during "trick or treat"?
(minimalist ..., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:28, 9 replies)

Cereal Killer
Upon returning from a holiday to japan a friend at work brought back the obligatory bags of dried fish and other unidentifiable nastiness that is inedible by us westerners.

They sat there untouched for months until one day, when extra bored, I hatched a cunning plan to boost moral. This was to insert a handful of the tiny stinky fish things into one of the miniature boxes of cereal another member of the team used to eat in the mornings.

It was masterful, whilst he was in a meeting one afternoon I went in though the bottom of the little carboard box, prised open the inner bag without damaging it and inserted the piscine suprises. Whatever sealed it in the first place was moist enough to reseal without any visual indication of tampering, and then I simply prit sticked the bottom of the box back together. You really couldn't tell that anything had been done to it. Of course by now everyone was in on it and we all waited for the next morning in anticipation of the great merrment.

Cue him going off cereal.

Six months later and in a different office we'd pretty much given up hope of him every eating the box of cereal sitting on his desk. Then one day he stands up and publicly announces "Hmm I really fancy some cereal".

He actually screamed when they came out.

I have never seen an entire office laugh so hard.
(Bert Wimple, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:02, Reply)

Michael Winner again.
So, smart-arsed cunt director and food ‘critic’ Michael Winner came into the restaurant the other evening. I decided to pay him back for a lifetime of generally being a twat by wanking into his crème brulee.

Unfortunately the patrons of the establishment didn’t take kindly to me standing in the middle of his table, frantically pulling myself off and grinning like a wanking Jap. So the management threw me onto the street, lad still in hand, before I could give him his ‘just desserts’.

To cap it all, I got spunk on my suede shoes as I was forcibly ejected.

Never one to give up easily, I was able to sneak into the kitchen the next day when no one was looking, with the intention of adding my own 'chef's special sauce' into his spaghetti carbonara. Due to an unfortunate and frankly unlikely bout of myopia, I misjudged the distance between groin and pan, and burned my cock.

Sometimes life ain’t fair. Etc.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 11:36, 7 replies)

I use mince
as a soya substitute.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:50, Reply)

Tea-bagging
I used to work for the worst boss in the world. I think I've mentioned him before.

Anyway, one night, after a particularly grating run-in with him, I went off in a huffy fit. Later in the evening, upon spying one of the many cardigans he left in the office frequently, I gobbed a slimy friend into it, and chortled at the thought of him wearing my phlegm.

A couple of weeks later I was on shift with the compulsive lying druid, and admitted my shameful act to him.

He laughed, and agreed I should be embarassed about it. Then asked casually if I drank tea. "No, don't like it or understand it."

To which he responded "Me neither" and stuck his hand down his trousers (this wasn't THAT uncommon behaviour for this guy. Apparently his particular branch of druidity only washed during the full moon or something).

Anyway, while fishing deeply in his gusset, he continued his response.

"Tom (the arse helmet boss) is the only one who drinks tea at work"

And upon completing this sentence he produced from the depths of his trews a decidedly soggy looking handful of tea bags, which he proceeded to drop straight into the tea bag tin that was kept on the desk.
(lessmiserable, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 3:53, Reply)

Before I was old enough to go to pubs
It was house parties galore. The split second anyones parents were locking the front door, suitcase in hand, we were already storming through the back door ready to squat for several days drinking the house dry, getting the cat stoned and breaking nearly every ornament in the process.

I was one of the lucky ones who had a boyfriend a few years older than myself so he provided me with alcohol. He wasnt 18 but this was before recent times, nowadays you need to look at least 30 and provide the cashier with 2 types of ID before they'll consider putting the beer through the till.

The majority of people at these shindigs, however, had to nick their beer from the parentals so the alcohol available was pretty varied.

A rather unfavoured young man from my school brought a giant bottle of champagne to drink by himself. He'd had some but put it in the fridge whilst he went outside to smoke some dispicable things. I didn't witness the next half hours goings on but boy with champagne had made some kind of sarky remark and was generally agressive trying to pick a fight with boyfriend.

Bf remains calm and collected and just goes back into the kitchen. Takes his champers out of the fridge, pours half of what was left down the sink.. and pisses in it.

Moron strolls back into the kitchen, where upon a witness to the pissing dares him to down the rest of the bottle.

Which he did, ending it with a huge smile on his face expecting us to be proud like he'd just run the marathon or something..

Ending with the unforgettable words 'I thought it'd be colder than this by now!'
(i should have joined myspace, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 20:09, Reply)

Racists + food sabotage = job satisfaction
Hello. I am a redneck. As such, I earned my teenage Bud Light and mullet wages by working in a local supermarket bakery’s donut laboratory.

My small redneck town boasted some fine racists in its stock, chief amongst which was the leader of the Christian Nationalists. This man would come in every morning and buy up a dozen donuts, I assume to distribute to some racists. I, being a Teenage Superpinko with the wherewithal to realise that racism is bad, refused to serve him, handing the job off to my coworker who counted mindless racism amongst her finest attributes. My boss, a part-time racist Baptist minister who wished to create his own cult that worshipped him as the messiah, became very angry indeed that I would absolutely not sell donuts to King Racist. “Pidgeony,” he said, “just sell dem derned donuts. Figgir it out.”

And figgir it out I did!

So imagine the big racist’s surprise when he came in the next morning to find a box of neatly packed donuts waiting for him! And every day thereafter! I had to get in early to rub those donuts against toilet sludge, fill them with a combination of cream and snot and top them off with a fart, but ahhh, it was worth it.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:26, 6 replies)

There was this crap lurgi kid in our secondary school Home Economics class, called Craig.
The day we made egg custards, we had to stand them on the fridge shelves overnight to set before we could take them home to our long-suffering parents.

Three of us snuck back into the Home Ec classroom at break, and while the delicious nutmeg-dusted puddings were still liquid, we submerged a half-frozen turkey sausage in Craig's. But before we did that, we injected the revolting flabby meat-cock with cheap blue washing up liquid, inserted via ingenious use of an empty biro tube. Kind of like an antibacterial poultry eclair.

Apparently, it quite spoiled his mum's birthday tea. Sorry, Mrs Craig.

(It wasn't really our fault, though - your mongy son shouldn't have got that massive yellow seagull turd all down his cheek at the bus stop in first year.)
( grey kid is breakdancing to save a community centre, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:21, Reply)

Unintentional one.
I'm going to keep this one short as it's not particularly funny.

Basically, either it had got into the drying cups or into the kettle - how, I do not know.

But I _accidentally_ brewed a cup of coffee with a spider in it for my ex.

She only realised as she was drinking it.

Coffee and boiled arachnid went everywhere and I got the sulks for a couple of weeks afterwards.


Oh and we once had a vegetarian couple visiting for a meal. Well that's not accurate. She was one of those overbearing bunny-cuddlers who tried to insist that we used no cutlery / crockery that had ever been involved in preparing a meat dish. Good look with that.

In case anyone thinks I'm being too harsh, she holidayed in America a couple of times - where she was born - and was quite happy eating steak over there because "that was the done thing". A strident, moralising hypocritical cunt of the first order.

Well, preparatory to serving the meal we'd rubbed bacon all over her plate. Twunt.
(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_(_ =o.o=, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 18:54, Reply)

Not entirely sabotaging food, but using food to sabotage other things
There was a long running game of "hide the mobile phone" while we were at Uni. Leave your phone unattended for even a second, and your loved ones has all been sent messages informing them of your desires to rim them, or how much you hate them and their fat arses etc... You would be lucky to get it back within a couple of hours.

One evening, my house mate was particularly drunk and had passed out, leaving his phone in the kitchen. So I wrapped it in cling film and sat it in a bowl of jelly. The idea was to watch him hunt high and low for it until he asked one of us to call it, and then laugh til we cried when he realised that the fridge was ringing.

Basically, jelly seems to have little respect for cling film and its attempts to keep liquids away. We returned the following day to find him sat eating his jelly, clutching his very sticky, extremely dead mobile.

The moral of the story: use zip lock bags next time
( Devon Dan without geometry, there would be no point, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 18:45, Reply)

Hide the turd
A favourite story of one my ex housemates. Its one of those "friend of a friend" ones, but I believe it to be true.

A friend of my housemate was at a fairly uneventful party once, and everyone was getting pretty drunk. At a particularly dull point in the night, someone suggested that they play "Hide the Turd" In which one person takes a shit, and somehow (I'm not sure how) transports it into a hiding place somewhere in the house, and the other people have to try and find it. There are some lovely people around. So this person has a turd, hides it somewhere in the house, and the others start looking all over for it. But they can't find it anywhere, and eventually give up.

The party eventually ends, turd still hidden, and everyone forgets about it.. Until a few weeks later when the mother of the person whos house party it was, makes some sandwiches, and when scraping some butter from the tub, notices the butter becomes brown halfway down.

Turns out the guy who hid the turd, took the butter out of the tub, put his turd in, and then put the butter back on top! Genius.
(scazy_lumbag, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:44, 11 replies)

I pissed in his Ribena
My awful flatmate. He used to keep it in a special cupboard so I never 'stole' it, so I whizzed in it and gave it a good shake.

All was good until I woke up with a mammoth hangover days later, forgot, and drank some.

Retch.
(whitehorse, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:58, 1 reply)

If you can't stand the heat...
Let me start this by saying that I love to cook, and generally speaking I'm very good at it.

One of my specialties is gumbo, though I also do a very good chili. I can also brew up a spaghetti sauce that will make you jump around and go "Woo!"

Some of my friends, and both of my sons, profess to liking their food spicy. I'll make something with a bit of a kick to it and they'll tell me it's too mild.

Never say that to a cook.

Did you know that chipotle powder will make a person howl and grab for water if you sneak some into their bowl? Now you do.

For extra fun I take a bowl out of the same pot (without the chipotle) and eat it, smiling, with an untouched beer within reach...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:44, Reply)

Finger Snacks
A quick one before the end of the week, and funnily enough back at my old job at a supermarket which sounds unsuprisingly like 'Besco'.

Our company had a horrible training policy. So horrible in fact that it was a 10 question multiple choice test followed by the royal boot onto the shop floor to do the customer's bidding. The same went for the deli counter. A new lass, I'll call her Jane because she only worked there for one day and bugger knows if I can remember such an insignificant peon, had just joined and was told to operate the big mechanical meat slicer.

Jane's manager, Charlotte, was a draconian nightmare whose policy was a simple case of "do it or get out of my department". When Jane explained she didn't know how to work the health and safety-defying monstrousity, Charlotte broke the sound barrier with her orders and Jane was promptly slicing away through the processed meats, and then incidently her thumb.

While most knives will leave a flap and a dirty cut, this was a top of the range slicer, and so a clean half inch of hand and blood lay mixed in with the chicken roll. Jane, as most humans would do, quickly got herself sorted and called an ambulance whilst screaming bloody murder. Charlotte on the other hand proceeded to complaining that she had to slice the rest of the meats herself (without time to clean the machine) and made a bigger spectacle about her manual labour than the now crippled staff member.

2 hours later the food safety officials were down, the deli shut, all produce sent to be incinerated and Charlotte sacked for serving black pudding to half the store.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 25 Sep 2008, 15:03, Reply)

knob cheese v religion
I work in radio and when i started, i was an employed working cliche. Yes, I was the early morning dog's body who pushed buttons and made the tea.

One particular Sunday morning the religious producer, who we called "Womble", on account of her being a big fat bitch, told me "I'd never make it in this business" and "I should buck my ideas up and never turn up with a (only slight) hangover again".

The only reason she vented her spleen in my direction was because the cunt-faced-christian had fucked up pushing the buttons SHE was in charge of... my fault clearly! Being a nice kind of chap, and too junior and timid to fight my corner, i offered to make some tea to appease the aged fucker.

Now because I'd been on the shandy the night before I was up late, therefore didn't bother to have a shower when I got up at 5am. This meant that certain areas of my body had made a speical type of home made knob produce. As I was pouring the water into the cups I began to want my own sweet (or salty in this case) revenge.

I vividly remember thinking "the bitch will eat my cheese".. So I grabbed the spoon for her cup, whipped out the old fella, scooped up an extra portion of smegma and gleefully stired it in with her sweetex. I sat in the production area outside of the studio and watched her gulp the whole lot down. That was a good day.

I still work in radio and she doesn't. win.
(gingerwizard, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 17:28, 9 replies)

A note
Apologies for tenuous link to topic, and if it's bindun, but fuck it:

A note to clothes shop designers:

A man walks into a high-street clothes shop (ouch, fnarr). He casts his eye around, finds a t-shirt and some jeans he quite likes, but crucially: he cannot tell if they are clothes for women or men! He cannot simply take the garments to the till and hope, for an innocent comment such as "it's so nice you know your girlfriend's size!" would surely cause a furious blush to erupt on his face and it would be obvious to the cashier, anyone paying at the same time, anyone who happened to be nearby, the security guard and in fact the entire universe that HERE IS A MAN WHO WISHES HE COULD WEAR WOMENS' CLOTHES. PITY HIS UNDOUBTEDLY TINY COCK!

He cannot simply ask an attendant to which sex the togs he has taken a fancy to are appropriate for similar reasons (burning embarrassment, tiny cock etc). Instead, he must find an attendant suitably far away from the clothes he was looking at - so as to allay suspicion - in the Court of the Underwear Queen flanked by Amazonian golems modelling the latest in fashionable ladies' swimwear. The attendent is all smiles and lightness; one cannot help but think of the deep sea Angler fish, which generates a small amount of light in order to lure curious prey on to its arrays of needle-like teeth. Was that a smirk he saw cross the face of one of the mannequins?

In a small voice he asks:

F'coov may, where uh menv clove? (trans: Excuse me, where are the mens' clothes?)

This is a hugely significant moment moment in a young man's life! For there are now two ways the exchange can proceed:

1) The man is informed that the shop only sells womens' clothes. He will blush, beat a swift retreat, be unable to live down the shame and have to become a hermit existing only to further contemplate his embarrassment, and write answers to QOTWs that only he thinks are funny.
2) The attendant points in the right direction. More often than not, this is exactly where our hero has just come from.

It is so much harder to return than he remembers! Ready to dodge a hefty clout from a mannequin (which he feels he surely deserves) and dodging bra straps' strangling grasps our lad makes his way back to the menswear at which point he is more than likely to forget what he came in for and beat a swift retreat - see 1).

So, clothes shop designers: make it obvious where the mens' stuff is.

Otherwise I'll gob in your tea.
(Ozz, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 16:42, 8 replies)

Good Ol' Jonesy
You'll never guess what I put in the Kool-Aid
What larks!


Yours etc.
Rev. Jim Jones.



(probably bindun)
(Pickettywitchfinder General, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 12:34, 1 reply)

Eating at a steak house
..me and the ex sitting on a table-for-2, right next to another couple who are on their own table-for-2. Except they are a pair of butch lesbians. Moustaches, the mono-brow, the lot. They are holding hands in the low lighting right next to our table, and the ex is trying not to stare and laugh.
So, just as the ex is taking a nice bite of steak I say at a nicely audible level in the middle of talking about the food "So which one do you think is the bloke?"
She almost choked to death on her sirloin.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 10:24, 11 replies)

Film project
Once when I was on a film shoot I found out my co-star had a rare condition that meant she had no sense of taste or smell. During the shoot I was supposed to poo in her mouth, but I cunningly gave myself an enema beforehand and filled my bottom with peanut butter. Cue the action shot and she was giving it large with all the 'Oh yeah baby, shit in my mouth' and 'Use me as your toilet' stuff. It was so funny cos she was eating peanut butter instead of my poo. Still cracks me up.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 14:59, 1 reply)

Hard Cakes!!!!
I used to work for a certain (no longer existing) car credit company with the annoying advert with a rather fit looking young lady dressed in yellow and green.

As you can imagine it was not the busiest of offices due to the reputation (thanks to the BBC). So it was pranks ahoy in there.

One Saturday afternoon it dorned on us that pretty much everyone in the office was suffering from paranoia, checking their phones for boot polich or hair gel, making sure we had not filled the heater fans in their cars with the contents of all whole punchers in the office and switched them to "on" so that when they started the car up the whole car was filled with this ever lasting white covering.

So it was decisded that we were to target the "other staff", by this we meant the valleters. As you can imagine these were not the sharpest tools in the box, but we knoew they were up for a laff and would not take things too personally.

However we decided to up the anti with this plan.

One of us (he did not tell us the reason why he had this) had a stash of Viagra gel in his car. So we decided to (as normal on a saturday) get the cakes in for the afternoon. One of which we decided was to be an exceedingly good apple pie. This was great to disguise the viagra gel.

So we got hold of one of those mix your own colour paint syringes and pumped the pie full of vigra gel, knowing that only half was enough to keep you "up" all night.

passed the cakes round like usualand there were of course 2 left for the valeters, knowing one of them was a little bit weird and sleazy at times we made sure that he ate the apple pie.

A little over an hour later this valeter came into the office wearing the longest duffle coat he could find and he was beetroot red and looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Trying to hold our faces straght we asked if was ok, it turned out that in the vlet office there was a stash of selected top shelf mags that were "read" during lunch and the vlaeter thought that it was gods way of punnishing him for being filthy as he was looking at the mags that lunch and the consequences were still around for all to see the next morning when he came in to open up.

I don't think he ever went near a fiesta or an escort ever again.

Length?

I could not bear to look but the girls in the office said was nothing to shout about!!
(ingus mcfly to heaven for the weather and hell for the company, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 11:44, 9 replies)

A mouthful of aloe.
I didn't sabotage someone else's food; I sabotaged my own. As it was aimed at the shit I was intending, I am quite pleased it hit its mark squarely.

One good way to destroy a casual college dormitory environment (doors open, visitors welcome, stop by and chat or collaborate in study) is to be a stoner who abuses the open door policy to snatch and scarf whatever food can be seen. Having been the victim of several "whoa, nice grub" attacks, I devised a counter to the practice of a few inconsiderate shits with deaf ears. Picking up a box of cake donuts from a local bakery, I turned them into glazed donuts using the sap from wild aloe plants growing around the verdant campus. Having warned the most frequent legitimate visitors to my room of my intentions, I left the box open on the usual snack spot and buried my face in a book with back turned to the door. It took about an hour for the first victim, but I knew the trap had been sprung as I heard the simple cry, "alright!" followed by a stream of choking and retching sounds. Raw aloe sap is exceptionally nasty on the palate and tends to stick around for a long while. I have unfortunately been subject to its foul taste after mishandling the spiky fronds and, even after washing my hands, was still contaminated by the stuff. I can't imagine just how bad an entire spoonful's worth all at once would be, as that was the general amount I had slathered over each piece of donut bait. I actually managed to catch another pothead with the poisoned donuts that afternoon, after which I assume word got out I was spiking my food. Fortunately, both jerks had the decency to toss up the foul concoction outside my room.
( Felis Concolor, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 19:50, Reply)

Projectile Coleslaw
Being treated as a bitch whilst an apprentice mechanic, mate's one job each week was to go to takeaway and get everyone's orders, usually without being given the full amount and making up the difference himself. The chief bully kicked off the one week as his beloved KFC coleslaw was not in the bag as ordered, and gave mate a slap about and general humiliation. Two weeks later, he fetches the KFC again but finds the lost coleslaw in his car footwell en route. A little swap out and then the pure delight of seeing the vile bastard take a mouthful of rancid bubbly creamy goo and proceed to empty his guts at length over the rest of the increasingly angry panel beaters. The job didn't last long after that.
( Ulic hissing slightly, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 17:15, Reply)

an engineering chum of mine has had a brainwave
he's somehow figured a way to harness the hardening properties of newtonian liquids such as custard powder and water mix, and the slipperiness of butter, to create a new type of anti-tank round for the military. it's kinda hush-hush at the moment, all i can say is that it's looking very promising.. seems they contain more kinetic energy than a regular shell, are easier to transport as it's essentially a liquid most fo the time, and once inside the powder plays havoc with the inhabitants of the tanks and the systems within, rendering them useless and untenable.
they reckon it's ushering in a new age in anti-tank warfare.

the food sabot age

*gets coat in preparation*
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:44, 3 replies)

no strictly sabotage... but pretty impressive fail nonetheless.
i was dating a rather pretty but ultimately rather unsuitable bellydancer girl.
having woo'd her with my culinary prowess, she decided to reciprocate and cook me dinner (i'm no gary rhodes but i do DAMN good italian and lethal chilli)
i turned up as she was cooking.

you know when you're watching something absolutely mesmerised by the wrongness of it, unable to look away? now combine that sensation with the sure and certain knowledge that failure to keep your mouth shut and smile will SURELY result in being denied the chance to 'baste her turkey' and you're close to what motivated me to not only WATCH, but consume the product of this unholy union:

boil water
add pasta
dice onion
(this is where it gets weird)
ADD onion TO water/pasta and BOIL until soggy
slop mess into colander
add a half pot of co-op tangy salsa dip (chilled)
grate a clove of raw garlic into mix.
add parmesan
serve.


jesus it tasted like boile3d frenchman's socks.
interesting fact- boiling onions seems to amplify their notorious gaseous properties to a near untenable level.
this does not help when trying to get your end away, neither does raw garlic breath or a stomach full of the revolting slop.
length? she lasted 3 months.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 8:56, 2 replies)

There's a Beastie Boys theme restaurant in New York.

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 16:59, 5 replies)

Here's to all the Halls of Residents food thieves.
During my stay in the grim Albert-Speer-style halls at Queen Margaret University, many light fingered student types had away with almost all the food purchased perhaps the night before, most notably a handful of margarine (I say handful, there were finger-marks), prompting me to stop buying anything requiring a fridge.

This caused me some reasonable distress, so we decided to take action. One night, a mate and I made bolognese. The mince was cheap and fatty, so we drained off the excess into a bowl. It set pure white.

Feeling particularly vindictive we decided to make a cake. Into our most evil of victoria sponges went a healthy dash of pepper, a handful of parmesan, plenty of sugar, filled the middle with a heady mix of jam and ketchup, and finally iced the whole thing, with utmost care and presentational finesse, with the aforementioned beef fat.

It looked very appealing, and to ensure that we got those thieving bastards, we took a generous slice out, then left the cake in the common room.

To our delight, we discovered our lard cake the next day with at least two more slices missing.

I hope they enjoyed it. The arseholes.
(TheWoldinite too energetic for normal sports, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 12:39, Reply)

Hmmmm....
I do worry this QOTW might get a bit stale - all the stories are basically going to boil down to b3tan/friend of b3tan knows cunt. b3tan/friend of b3tans puts something icky in cunt's food/drink. Cunt eats/drinks icky stuff. I have a standard one but I'll just make it all clipped English.

In the finest borough of Dover there is a vendor of meat that is known in its home land as "kebab". It was named after the great Admiral Kebab, who single handedly lead the Khazakstan army to victory against Japan in WW 0.5.

And so it came to be on one moonlit night that two adventurous fellows did happen upon said vendor. Feeling quite famished from a night of dancing, witty exchange and revalry with the finest social darlings the town had to offer, they decided to happen upon the vendor and try some of this strange ethnic cuisine.

They were slightly melancholic about the affair, but since losing the battle of Crabble Recreation Ground in the year nineteen hundred and ninety eight they had been unable to return to their regular dining quarters for fear of attack from the new ruling party, the O'Brian's of Heathfield Avenue.

"Dear sir, this food looks awfully queer. I think I shall take....what does that say? A doner kebab? Yes, that sounds quite acceptable. Tell me kind sir, who donated it?"

The two patrons laughed at this remark. The shopkeep did not, most likely due to not understanding any language than his own, primitive tongue.

After more banter with the ethnic gentleman they decided to garnish this "doner kebab" with garlic sauce. True, garlic was the herb of the old enemy but by Jove, tonight was a night of adventure, so why not flirt with the tastes of our brethren across the sea?

Upon exiting the shop they sit upon the pavement and look up at the sky. The night was full of stars and they each quietly contemplated how each of those stars have helped Dover's seafaring adventurures conquer mighty Poseidon as they dined upon their new, foreign cuisine. Then a most peculiar thing happened.

"I say old boy, this garlic sauce doesn't taste like what my palate is accustomed to".

But the magic of the night overwhelemed any curiosities about the food and they enjoyed the rest of the night.

But foul things were afoot. Upon a later date, agents sent on behalf Her Majesty did frequent this shop to ensure that this strange foreign food was fit for consumption by the mighty British populace. They found something most peculiar in the garlic sauce. Yes, the British are used to consuming sesame seeds. They are used to consuming poppy seeds.

But human seed?

Fin.
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 22:50, 1 reply)

I am a GOD
When I worked at Fuckwits Foods, some customer asked for sparkling wine so I gave them a mug of Ebola infected slug cum, siphoned off by Lucifer himself. They died a painfull death 3 days later. Wiping my knob on the rim of the glass made me feel like I'd just got revenge for every crime ever committed on this planet since the dawn of bacterial life.

Fuck, there should films made about me.
(Mr.Dog was in love again on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:20, 1 reply)

Spunky mash
I have some friends whom have an active love life. One evening they decided to make "mash of love" whereby he liberally jizzed in the mash and they ate - sparingly.

next morning, another - mentaller - friend visited their house having been on a 36 hour colombian march. He was quite animated, and spied the pan of love-mash.

He leant in, and grabbed the pan. No amount of telling him it was last nights, not edible etc would convince him (without their sordid tale coming out) not to eat it. Its true the eater was quite homophobic to say the least, and certainly not open minded enough to eat another mans jizz.

So they had to watch him devour about a Lb (454g for the metric nazi's) of jizzy mash.

They told us a few weeks later, with both a look of shame and pride in equal measure.
( bazza van der trance , ooh baby baby, baby baby. Get up on this., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:41, 1 reply)

I'm not proud....
Whilst at secondary school doing GCSEs, I had to the most poisonous Art teacher known to man.

We never saw eye-to-eye, mainly because her idea of teaching ME art (as the opposite of her teacher's pet, rather like her teacher's hemarrhoid) was to get me to run silly errands for her.

One day, she asked me to make her coffee whilst I was trying to complete a final exam-piece clay sculpture. Freshly taken out of the kiln, I was sanding that mother down to make it all baby's bumesque. I bet you can't guess where the clay filings went? Yep. Right into the Kenco.

The teacher was off school for a week with some severe unaccounted for sickness. And I found God praying on a daily basis that she wouldn't snuff it.

She still deserved it though, but that's the first and only time I ever tampered with food. Haven't got the nerves for it!!

EDIT: And some of the stories on here make me wonder how some people aren't in jail for murder!!!
(The Apeface Cherub is not a cunty-uber-cunt, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:47, Reply)

iPlayer sabotaged my dessert!
Coding away at my machine I thought I would take a little break. Made myself a cup of tea and got a nice chocolate mousse from the fridge. As I settled back down in my chair I fired up the BBC's iPlayer and looked for something to amuse me for half an hour. After trawling for literally 30 seconds I started a programme called 'Dog Borstal'. Just as I took the first spoonful of chocolate goodness into my mouth the programme started and the first dog's behaviour problem? Yes it eats turds! After a few lingering shots of fido munching down a few logs, i'd gone right off my mousse... humph
(Crowman, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:24, Reply)

I'm a former chef...
...and I had plenty of opportunities to add bodily fluids and roadkill to hundreds of dishes, but I never did.

The nearest I came to it was after one woman asked for a well-done fillet steak, which I cooked in the usual way. Our fillet steaks were like a man's fist so by the time the middle was cooked the outside was pretty crispy.

Lady complains the outside is too "burnt" and wants another one. Bear in mind the first one took 45 minutes and it's 10 minutes before closing time, so I got another fillet steak out, wrapped it in cling film and threw it on the floor before jumping up and down on it.

2 minutes in a 3kW microwave oven, followed by 30 seconds in the deep fat fryer and thrown on the flame grill to catch fire for 45 seconds. On the plate it went and back to the table.

The result? Compliments to the chef, best steak I've had in years, bought all the kitchen staff a pint.
( Amos E Wolfe makes vinyl signs and things like that, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:18, 2 replies)

The few times
I've ever had to resort to food sabotage, (mostly due to food stealage in a shared house) I've always used Dave's insanity sauce. A teaspoon full of this stuff is enough to take a hot curry to somewhere else entirely. Used sensibly it's a fantastic and very nescescary addition to any curry fans spice cupboard.

However just a tip of a teaspoons worth hidden inside a couple of delicious ham and pickle sandwiches is enough to give anyone second thoughts about snaffling your packed lunch again.
Apparentley the perpetrator "bellowed like a bull" and made for the watercooler at a high rate of knots.

Revenge is best not served cold, it's best served in a stolen sandwhich.
(uk_viper stopped lurking on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 12:17, 5 replies)

Rabbit pie
Steve, a diving colleague of mine had a mate that took a cuddly rabbit everywhere as a mascot. Why I don’t know – he was in his thirties. Obviously, it was the subject of many pranks. Someone would swipe it before they went on holiday and torment its owner with photographs of it on the beach and send them home as a postcard. Once, as they were travelling back convoy-style from a dive, rabbit had again gone missing. As the poor bloke looked in his rear view mirror, he saw Steve approaching at speed behind him – with rabbit tied firmly to the grill of the car.

He wasn’t very happy.

However, on a night out in a restaurant, they decided to really push the boat out. Managing to obtain the rabbit again, they went into the kitchen for a word with the chef. A short while later, the waiter came out with what appeared to be a deep-dish pie, topped with a delicious-looking crust.

Complete with fluffeh rabbit ears poking out of the top…

Apparently he went ballistic and left the club not long afterwards.

I did have another acquaintance who decided to go camping with a bunch of mates and be at one with nature. Really at one with nature - they would hunt their own food and everything.

They managed to catch a rabbit, skin it and cook it. Unfortunately for them it transpired that the bunny was a bit manky and they spent the next 24 hours shitting through the eye of a needle before deciding to go home.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 11:56, Reply)

Whilst a biochemistry student
I was required to to a bizarre practical which involved measuring the speed of passage of vitamin C through the digestive system. I had to take a massive dose of the vitamin and then collect samples of my piss hourly for the next twelve hours.

I also had to store them in the fridge to ensure the vitamins wouldn't degrade. I was a first year in halls at the time and my co-residents were not at all happy about these vials of piss turning up in the communal refrigerator.

After the first couple of samples, I went to the fridge and got a horrible shock - the earliest sample had turned blood red! At the following hour the next earliest had also gone red and the original had gone black! At this point I started to think there must be something seriously wrong with me ... and moreso when I opened the fridge a third time and found a third sample had also become bright red.

The next time I went the next sample in line had turned green. After a moment of abject horror I suddenly rumbled what had been going on - one of the other students in the hall had been carefully sneaking food dye into the samples in order to freak me out ....
(MattDP (Squiggle), Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:47, 1 reply)

Is it just me?
Or is QOTW mean at the moment?

Food is a thing of joy. Even if you can't cook, you can eat and it's a wonderful thing.

I can cook and very much enjoy doing so.

As an antedote to the meanness of this QOTW I am going to tell you what I would cook if I could go on "Come Dine With Me"

Starter: Scallops with Bacon, with a Spinach and Pinenut salad

Main: Smoked Haddock in Creme Fraiche Sauce, served with potato dauphinoise and asparagus

Dessert: Chocolate Cherry Mousse Surprise

This would be accompanied by some Boujolais Nouveau and some party games.

Let me know what you think of my menu

In the spirit of this QOTW, the worse sabotage I've ever committed is to give someone who's annoyed me the least nicely arranged plate. If they haven't annoyed me, I take it myself.

I do this with the dog as well.
(Jugular, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:30, 22 replies)

Calling All Food Saboteurs!
I need your help with some bastard food theives.

98% of the food I eat is raw and vegan (don't judge, it's my choice and I'm not preachy, I even cook the boyfriend's steak for him when he buys it) so have a ton of raw fruit and vegetables around my warehouse apartment and in the fridge.

My roommates CONTINUALLY steal it, regardless of my many protests and pleas. They get drunk or stoned and eat all my fruit and vegetables, and it's the only food I eat!! GRRR!!

So I need to sabotage the next batch of food I buy. It can be blatant or sneaky, I don't care which, as long as I get my revenge. I don't want to spit on it or rub it on my pussy as I am actually good friends with everyone I live with when they're not eating my sweet sweet apples and celery.

Suggestions please!
(little fawn, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:59, 39 replies)

There was a guy who hung around with our group
He pulled the girl I really liked, and basically made her unhappy. She eventually broke up with him, and I confessed my feelings to her. She said she liked me too, but it was too soon after the other guy and she was leaving to go travelling the next day. I didn't see her again.

The next time our group was out, I got chatting to a rather lovely German girl. An hour later, the same guy had his tongue down her throat.

So I put my cock in his drink when he wasn't looking.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:14, 5 replies)

When I moved away...
...from home for the first time I moved in with a guy called Pete. We were good mates and he still is to date the best flat mate that I have ever lived with.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, Pete's idea of housework was...well..inventive at best. Downright clatty at worst.

Pete's approach to washing the dishes for example was to let his dog lick the plates clean. Give them a quick wipe with a tea towel and then put them back on the shelf. I should point out that I only found this out after we had been living together for about 2 weeks. I was working nightshift at the time and left for work just after dinner most nights.

When I found out, a mutual friend clued me in, I was less than thrilled. My plan for vengeance was to make 2 mini steak pies for our dinner. One for me with lovely prime steak and one for Pete with lovely Winalot Prime. I put our first initial on each pie just to prevent any mix up.

His only complaint during the meal was that it didn't taste as nice as the last ones I had made. I told him that the butcher I usually went to was closed. When he finished more than half of his doggy delight I mentioned it's ingredients. After about a 5 second pause he just shrugged and carried on regardless. The man had a stomach like a steel trap.

Bon appetit.
(charliesays, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:11, 2 replies)

I can't believe it's not butter!
This is one of those friend of a friend stories, I don't think I'd be able to come up with something like this.

It concerns two roommates who were having a feud. Not sure how it started, but I do know that after a while shit got involved. Roommate A shat in a tub, hid it under Roommate B's bed. B shat in a saucepan and put it in A's food cupboard.

Then, nothing happened. It had been a few weeks and A never retaliated. B had won. Then he went to have some toast and made the discovery: A had taken B's butter tub, and scraped some off the bottom, lined the bottom with shit and put the butter back in.

And A had been eating it for weeks, only finding it once he scraped down to the bottom.

*Edit* Shit, just read the same story a little bit down the page. Only it was a game of hide the turd.
(cH3$h7846J#7, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 18:09, 5 replies)

Milk at Uni
In my first year at university and like many people i had to share a flat in halls of residence with people i didn't like, because they are rubbish at life.

As i expected my milk start to get pinched on a regular basis.

So in a vain attempt to stop this petty theft, i went out and bought a big red marker and proceeded to write all over each fresh new bottle of cow sap.
Now to deter the culprits, i would write on quite elaborate slogans such as;

WILLY WATER,
AIDS MEDICINE,
PLEASE DRINK MY SALTY SYRUP,
I HAVE SHAT IN THIS MILK

and so on....
( Peach Motorbike I hate the cut of your jib, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:09, 1 reply)

Up until very recently,
I worked in a large chain coffee shop. I loved it. It was a brilliant, brilliant job. The only problem was the calibur of customers we received in the town I lived in. It was a very middle class, gentrified, old fashioned town - full of women who were desperate to be Desperate Houswives. They'd saunter in around eleven, and order, "A skinny latte darling, and make it quick. I've got a nail appointment in half an hour and I can't face the rabble they employ without my caffeine." I despised them. From their must-have Gucci sun glasses to their Jimmy Choo shoes they could only wear once before having the hired help despose of them. The girls that worked there idolised them and being the only male working in the shop, I was in the minority. I used to sabotage their drinks any way I could think of. Not one of them ever got skimmed milk when I made their drinks. A few them got dairy when they asked for soya (only if they were taking away; I didn't want to clean up after them). The ultra skinny bitches would get whipping cream in the bottom of their lattes. I would also make the drinks really slowly if they made a point of mentioning that they were in a hurry. I realise these are pretty minor things, but they made a big difference to me and reduced the only con to an otherwise fantastic job.
( the_rhyme_minister has a little bit of gold and a pager, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:55, 2 replies)

I do believe that's not butter!
The problem with restaurants in college towns is that they're staffed by people who are struggling to get through school, working 60 hours a week at three different part-time jobs just trying to get by. Meanwhile, the customers are all people who can afford to eat in restaurants - the kind who only take the silver spoons out of their mouths to tell you how much better than you they are. This leads to some rather unnatural natural consequences.

If you're partial to pizza ...
... you should probably skip the rest

Spitting on food is one thing - well, one of the things that happens all the time - but we could get pretty inventive, especially this Cuban named "Toker." (We assumed it was a nickname - but a few years later, working as a bouncer, I got to see his ID.) Toker used to carry several sticks of pepperoni into the lavatory - it was one of those "don't ask" situations, but he went ahead and told us anyway. He claimed he could accommodate an entire onion ...

... though none of us was willing to bet.

There was one time when I lost five dollars to Toker when he bet me that Rugby players couldn't tell the difference between anchovies and semen, and I had the giggles for almost two weeks after we got a delivery order from the Kappa Alpha house asking for our "special salty sauce." There are days when I almost miss the time I spent in that sub-minimum-wage job - not many, but a few - and it certainly was an education.

Now, I'm well aware why Feta cheese smells that way.

Note: may not be my story
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:53, 2 replies)

Piss-drinking
Myself and a mate were playing darts in the local and there were 2 lasses at the bar, one the worse for wear. She was being *particularly* abusive to myself and stealing and drinking our drinks.

This went on for half an hour until I had enough. I found a half pint glass in the bar, headed for the toilet and proceeded to drain the snake into it. It was early doors, so my new cocktail had quite a yellow tinge to it - at this stage I was trying to decide what beverage this would pass for. I then headed to the bar, and asked for a glass of ice, as the warmth of fresh urine might have given the game away.

Walked back to the dartboard and concealed said glass to allow contents to "cool". Poor me though, as the drink had been spotted by said lass and she already had her eyes on it. She beat me to it (I was on a double 5, I was trying to concentrate) and my intial thoughts were, "Oh no, I'm fucked, it's still warm".

Anyway, she downed it all (no mixer), gave me the fingers, and fucked off back to the bar no questions asked.

Moral of the story is, never fall out with your girlfried in public. She's now my wife of 8 years.
(ISignedUpToTalkShit but that was another QOTW, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:36, Reply)

Sort of the same...........
I went through a stage of taking party poppers apart to get hold of the explosive bit.
These can be fitted down the length of a cigerette with no trace, once smocked they explode into a comedy cartoon acme type flayed out banger,
all was fine until I managed to get red hot blims into my mates eyes, luckily he couldn't see so I ran like fook*....

* after pissing myself laughing then realising I nearly cost him his sight.


Length:- about an inch but mighty potent!
( Gooch Is neither here nor there, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:24, Reply)

Food poisoning
I was once so pissed off with a flatmate that I took all her food out of the freezer, thoroughly microwaved each individual item, then put it all back into the freezer again.

I moved out the week after that, so never found out if she got food poisoning or not.
(etak, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:22, Reply)

Did your jam taste funny in 1985?
Shameless pearoast, but...

Many years ago, when I about 14, I went with some mates to do a summer job picking fruit (this is not a euphemism, so don’t start). It was a glorious hot summer, and every morning, Monday to Friday, we’d be picked up by bus at 8 o’clock and driven to the fruit farm. All we had to do was work our way along rows of fruit, picking gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries. None of which I liked, and so I could fill my bucket twice as fast as anyone else, who adopted the ‘one for the bucket, one for me’ approach.

Our wage was the princely sum of £2.50 per bucket. Marvellous. “Doesn’t matter if the berries are all squishy, lads,” the farmer told us, “they’re all going to be made into jam anyway”.

I don’t like jam either, by the way.

However, by about day three, and concerned as to how much he was paying out, the farmer decided to drop the value of each bucket by 50p. The tight-fisted, in-bred little shit. But, we carried on picking our assorted berries, and £2 per bucket still wasn’t bad in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t as if we had bills to pay or anything. And happily, the sun shone on, and we had a grand time.

A couple of days into week two, and farmer tight-arse informs us that the price is going down again, to £1.75. Now, I wasn’t well versed in the art of employment practice, but surely, the longer you’ve been doing a job, the more your pay goes up? Doesn’t it? Apparently not, in this case.

Slightly peeved by this, our work rate and productivity went down a bit, understandably, but the sun still shone and it wasn’t a bad setting in which to be pissing around with your mates. However, on turning up the next morning, we were informed yet again that the price per bucket had gone down again, this time to £1.40.

This was the final straw – farmer tight-arse was really taking the proverbial now. “I’m sick of this – I’m not coming back tomorrow”, I said. My mates all agreed. But, since we were stuck there all day, we thought we might as well earn some more cash, and have a little fun into the bargain. And so it passed that, each time anybody needed a piss, we would do so in the buckets we were filling, and grin inanely as we handed each bucket back. Then we left, never to return again.

So if anyone out there was around in 1985, and thought that their Robertson’s fruit jams tasted slightly funny, I’m afraid that you have probably unwittingly consumed some of my very own piss (and that of my friends as well). I’m very sorry for that, but it’s proof that if you’re in business, you should never piss off your workers. Because they’ll just find a way to piss all over your business…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:12, Reply)

I like my food spicy.
Which is fair enough, a lot of people do.

Well, during my first year at uni, we were all playing pranks on each other. The most stupid one though was when one of my flatmates put chilli sauce in my ketchup.

Later that day, I put the ketchup on some chips. I taste. This is the conversation:

Me: "Hmm. Odd"
Flatmate: (stifling giggles) "W.. .pfft.. what?"
Me: "Oh. Nothing really. Tastes a bit different"
Flatmate: "Oh.. let me try.. (tastes)... mm.. nope! Nothing wrong there! Maybe it's just you"
Me: "Yeah... maybe"
Fatmate: (still giggling)
Me: "It's nicer though"
Flatmate: "Eh?"
Me: "Yeah. It's really nice. Got a kick to it. Heinz must have changed the recipe"
Flatmate: "Oh."

So, award to most mundane prank goes to my old flatmate. Well done him.
(__, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:57, Reply)

I was staying in a monastery
with Dave Grohl, and it turned out that the Abbot and Dave were born on the same day of the same year!

that's right, Foo's Abbot's age
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:50, 3 replies)

Pie
Made a lovely looking meat pie and left it on the worktop to snare the food thief.
The filling? Supermarket own brand dog food.

Found the missing slice in the bin and a pool of vomit in the sink and the perpetrator in the living room looking quite green.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:37, 2 replies)

My first post :(
In year 8 i think at school there was a kid in my class who was eating a bag of doritos while walking home.
A seagull flew overhead and managed to aim its faecal matter directly into his bag.
The kid looked at the crisps, shrugged, and continued to eat the entire bag.
Don't know if that counts, but it was pretty funny
(Metaltoast, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 22:17, Reply)

not so nice toffee
while waiting in the car for my mum so we could go around to her friends place i spied some toffee looking substance in a bowl so not wanting to miss out on some sneaky toffee i broke a chunk off and stuffed it in my gob.... lo and be hold after a few chews found out it wasnt toffee but wax for my mother to wax her and her friends legs!! guess the joke was on me. first post and i like it rough so dont be gentle...
( jakedamusss I understand, and dont care., Wed 24 Sep 2008, 8:32, 2 replies)

my name is suzy
A few years back i used to work as a waitress in a top hotel in cape town , South Africa. It was a very busy time for us as the rugby world cup was on.

It was wonderful i got to meet a few of the all blacks who were staying in our hotel , they were really really nice and friendly.

Then i wiped my arse on all the plates in the kitchen just before their meal. The chef pissed in the soup and the wine waiter spat into the salad dressing.

The fuckers were as sick as dogs the next day and we won the cup !!!

Hurrah for South Africa
(welgar, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 8:24, 3 replies)

Tadpole / Raisins
Went camping in the New Forest, wanted to do it Ray Meirs style, so went off the beaten track and camped in a swamp. Used some water purifcation tablets to purify the water we collected from the stream / swamp we were camping in and cooked rice over a camping stove. Told my brother I had thrown in some raisins as rice is boring by its self. He ate tadpoles :O)
(TwinkleFuckingToes Has a ingrown toe nail, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 14:00, Reply)

swedish lemon biscuits
A bit off topic but a friend of mine passed on this recipie. These are spectacular. They are a bit fiddly to make but worth it.
try them and let me know how you get on



1 egg
1/2 cup buttermilk (or 1/4 c miil & 1/4 c vinegar)
5ts baking soda
1/2 ts vanilla
1 cup lenom juice (fresh is best)
1 1/4 cup sugar
3/4 cup flour
8tb butter or marge melted

1. preheat oven to 375f

2. beat egg in a bowl untill foamy

3. add buttermilk and vanilla and blend well.

4. add baking soda one teaspoon at a time, sprinkle in while blending untill the mixture is smooth and the consistancy of light cream.

5. add lemon juice stir but do not beat (it needs to be creamy but without a lot of air)

6. mixture will congeal into a lump. remove from bowl onto a floured surface.

7. sift flour and 3/4 cup of sugar together and using fingers mix into the egg-lemon mix.

8. roll out pastry aprox 2mm thick and cut into desired shapes.

9 . "pinch" up the edges to form a bowl. sprinkle over the remaining sugar.

10.brush with the melted butter.

11. place on ungreased baking tray . Bake for 12 mins or untill golden brown

ENJOY




Makes a change from all the " I spat in my flatmates orange juice" stories
(welgar, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 8:07, 11 replies)

Pancakes
The bittersweet taste of lemon and sugar on pancakes has never appealed to me – I’m more of a Golden Syrup type of man – but I have a friend that I used to work with called Jem, and she tells a story that is now the stuff of legends, and would put you off your pancakes for life.

The story goes that Jem was around a friend’s house last pancake day. Her group of friends is fairly close, and as such Jem was there with her then ex-boyfriend Alex as well as a couple of her female friends.

Jem and Alex had recently split, and as most of us guys can be when coming out of a relationship, Alex was being a bit of an arse.

Jem’s never one to be backward in coming forward, and as Alex was out of the room, Jem decided to take her own form of revenge.

Seeing that pancakes had been made for everyone except Alex, whose batch was due to be made next, Jem spotted her chance. In front of her girlfriends, Jem took the pancake batter mixture, put the bowl on the floor and squatted over it. Pulling her underwear to one side, she pissed into the mixture before picking the bowl up again and giving it a quick stir and chucking the contents into a hot frying pan.

Serving up the pancakes a few minutes later, everyone watched as Alex wolfed down his entire serving, not one of them telling him what had happened.

Apparently, the girls never told him as they felt that he “deserved it.”

Remind me never to piss off a woman again!
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Mon 22 Sep 2008, 20:28, 1 reply)

we baked our housemate a birthday cake with "TWAT" written in blue icing on top.
Turns out he was, in fact, an utter twat.
( Damien's Hearse, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 17:53, 1 reply)

Biscuits
I went to a boarding school and for a few years lived in a dorm with 17 morons. I wasnt that popular. We used to pass snacks around at night and as my bed was at one end, I used to get the dregs, you know, the really salty, damp digestive biscuits that no one else seemed to like.

Anyway, I was sick of getting the rubbish biscuits so I bought some boiled sweets and added a load of fluff from under my bed. I'd then pretend to open one in bed, someone would hear the rustling of the wrapper and demand I pass the bag on. Which I did. That showed them.

They never suspected and never got me back!!
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 15:37, 3 replies)

my mate in work a few years back
had a full blown argument were he thought milk is ok to use - even when its passed its used by date, if the cap is still sealed.

Both of us marched into the staff kitchen glaring at each other. He arrogantly grabs a bottle of green top from the back of the fridge - unopened - but a week out of its use by date.

Our eyes stay locked as we try to proove the other wrong. He opens the bottle and takes a swig straight away. without smelling it. I just watch with a big grin across my face.


I have never before seen someone go from complete arrogance to wobbly knees and yacking their throat up so quickly.

I won.

yay!

what was he thinking
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:03, 1 reply)

kidneys of death
i am vegetarian purely and simply because i've never liked the texture or taste of meat. i have no principles - i'm a lawyer ffs - if i liked it, i'd eat it. but i actually hate it.

the worst of the worst has got to be kidneys. or maybe liver. i could retch just thinking about the taste, and it must be 18 years since i had any in my mouth. liver and kidneys filter shit out of an animal . that shit has coursed through those organs for the length of the animal's short-assed life. why the hell would you want to eat that? why would you want to eat an ORGAN? ugh.

so imagine my horror one day when i leaned over to steal a contraband, delicious, hot, tasty mushroom from my brother's slice of steak and mushroom pie, which he had put on the table but then naively turned his back for a second...

... only to find my mouth full of mushy, squishy kidney death and my brothers pissing themselves at me. bastards, they'd told me it was steak and mushroom pie on purpose.

mind you, they still compete every time we're all together to see who can get me to eat meat without noticing it. yeah, because i'm not going to notice a slab of bacon swimming in my diet coke, am i?

they are 37 and 29...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 10:44, 11 replies)

my pop is a bastard
when I was young, about 6 or 7 I'm not sure why, but I really loved avocados. Well on one night out for a family dinner we went out for some sushi. A little while after we got our food my dad offered me a slice of avocado. Being 6, I didn't even stop and think of why a sushi restaurant would be serving avocado. I grabbed it of the plate and gobbled it down without any hesitation, then nearly choked to death... The bastard had used his chopsticks to mold a slice of "avocado" out of wasabi.
(dW3, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 10:10, Reply)

From the other point of view
I've always considered myself wat i would describe as a shitty buddhist; i beleive in most of the ideas and follow the peace and love stuff however do drink and do eat meat... with this in mind...
I once went raving in Brixton; amazing time with good mates, i left relatively sober and quiet and stopped off at a nearby well known fast food chain which was still open. I quietly ordered a burger and chips and watched as the charming fellow went around the various cooking equipment with a burger, carefully unwrapped it, gobbed in it five times, wrapped it back up and tried to serve it to me... i expressed to him politlely something along the lines of "What in fucks name do you think you are doing kind food monkey?" to which he responded(in an oscar worthy performance) as if he thought i'd been at the loopy juice. When i pointed out to him that i could see what he did in direct view he proceeded to call me a cunt and for his troubles got an amazing left hook square in the face... needless to say he was swiftly fired although i did have to do some explaining... oops!
(SteroidPigOhurugu, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 20:55, 1 reply)

Effervesant!
Alas, not my idea but my brother once spent an afternoon handing out Sterodent tablets from a Trebor extra strong mint packet.

Apparently, the effect is best if you bite down on them; and even better if you his rather dribbley mate, Geoff...

First post. Sorry for lack of goatse, etc. 3 year lurker, and I gather you're meant to apologise for being new in general...
(Toxoplasmosis Dulce et decorum est pro sodomy coleslaw, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 8:17, 2 replies)

votes please
just a question BUT

little miss welgar is comming to stay with me for a few days in a little while (YAY) . Before i load her on the plane back to her mother do you think she may like a can of redbull to drink? She already likes powerade (her choice if your wondering).

Its just that she may be a touch hyperactive at the other end and her mother may have just a little trouble getting her off to bed that night. I would be soooooooooo upset if that was the case
(welgar, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 4:30, 10 replies)

Problem solved.
Referring to answer of about 2 hours ago: I made Paul (gluttonous whining cunty housemate) a bowl of choc ice cream with a whole tab (8 pills) of Imodium mixed in.

The next time he shits (in November or thereabouts), the result will probably be classified as a WMD.

/hull
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 21:13, Reply)

Been chucked out your house?
Ex-missus shacked up with a fat swine?

Still got a key?

Piss in her kettle.

Sorted.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 19:11, Reply)

My mate
works at a funeral directors. The boss is a right miserable cunt and barks orders at people all day long. One day he demands my mate makes him a cup of tea and holds out his cup without even making eye contact. Said mate returns five minutes later with a lovely cup of tea for the boss only the cup had made an unplanned stop at the morgue in the basement and had been lovingly massaged with the bell end of a corpse. The boss takes a sip and says "Mmm, nice- thanks". My mate felt guilty for about eight seconds.
(Ich Komme is adjusting his testicles, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 15:34, 2 replies)

Not deliberate sabotage...
...but still. My dad's mate* once met a girl on a night out and ended up back at her house. After a little heavy petting, they ended up nekkid and feeling each other up. He asks for some sucky sucky and she tells him she'll only suck it if there's something flavoured on it.

I'm not sure if body paint was all that common back then so this chap goes on a starkers hunt for something to coat his pecker in. He ends up in the kitchen where he finds some jam, opens the jar and dunks his love sausage in. Off back upstairs he trots to claim his prize. She noms away, they get down to the nasty and all is well. Until the morning.

This chap didn't know that she lived with her mum. And when they went down to breakfast the next morning, there sat her mum and sister, happily spreading the cheesy jam on their toast. Lovely.

*This is the first time I have thought about the whole "not me but a mate" thing. I really hope this didn't happen to my dad. *Shudders*
( El Lazarus is calm now, Ish,, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 15:10, 1 reply)

Shit sandwich
The details are hazy. We were very, very drunk.

When we were younger, and drinking a bottle of vodka was deemed a good idea by our circle of friends, we did the vodka challenge. a bottle each, see how far you get. Simple. Stupid. Brilliant.

After about half a bottle one of my friends, Nick, went and passed out face down and naked in his mums bed.

After carrying on our teen binge for a few more hours, we went to check on him and found he had pissed the bed, to this end, we figured he's already sabotaged himself. To not carry on would be an insult. To someone. Probably.

Anyway, bastard friend A, who we'll call Matt, had a bright idea.

Shit sandwich!

He shit out a little nugget of joy between two pieces of bread, and promptly slapped it onto Nick's sleeping face, whilst gleefully shouting 'Shit Sandwich!' much to our hilarity. Imagine if you will a drunken Ryu, shouting 'Hadouken!' before smashing his enemy. This was similar. Only browner.

Nick awoke with a brilliantly relevant 'Ah shit!' and smeared the brown treasures across his face in an attempt to get it off him.

In his drunken state he threw the sandwich down off his bunk bed and behind his desk, where it stayed for about a week, before he tore his room apart looking for the source of the stench eminating from his stinky boudoir.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 11:10, 1 reply)

I once convinced a girl that my penis was actually a cock-flavoured lollipop
To be fair, she was only six years old at the time...
(Kaol's Stalker talks the talk and stalks the stalk, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 4:47, 2 replies)

An intellectual's approach to food entrapment...
Tony was an electronics buff... he was a radio ham, geek, and into all sorts of clever things...

There was a food thief in his place of employment. Every night packs of sweets, biscuits, crisps, whatever would go missing.

So Tony decides to teach the miscreant a lesson.

He gets a pack of Polo mints.
Removes the sweets and inner sleeve.
Slices the pack in half and removed a strip of the inner foil equal to 1 sweet.
He charges up a very powerful capacitor and inserts it down the centre of the sweets and connects the opposite ends of the capacitor to the opposing ends of the inner tube roll.
The two halves are taped back together and replaced into the outer sleeve.
The pack was left on his desk that evening.

The next morning they were gone.

There were no more thefts after that...

Mind you.. he could have been done for manslaughter, GBH, ABH and god knows what else.....
(bof, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 15:10, 2 replies)

Spunk Pizza roulette
my other half went through a phase of hanging up quickly after a take away order whilst simulateously saying "cunt"

I used to hate it, which made her do it more, we never knew if they heard it for sure - and she always insisted she switched off the phone before saying it - but there's always the nagging doubt

I've probably ingested more spunk than Marc Almond over the years
(The Goat www.cuttingthroughthematrix.com, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:45, Reply)

Tea Mr Shifter?
Whilst a student I spent a happy summer unpacking and re-packing tampons for a marketing company.

The people I had to work with were utter canutes to the point where I had to bring in a Thermos as I wasn't allowed to use their kettle.

Whilst alone in the staff room one afternoon it seemed like a good idea to piss in the kettle. I didn't go mad and fill it, just enough for me to raise a smile about it whenever they had a cuppa.

I later found out that someone else (equally disgruntled as myself) was rubbing the teaspoons in their arse crack every day.

Double whammy.
(zebby wasting irony here on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 13:33, 2 replies)

I pissed in the staff room kettle at school
I doubt I'm the only one.
( Peej, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:54, 2 replies)

Wasabi
Maybe a little far from the topic, but a former boss once told me of the time he went out to have lunch at a sushi place with co-workers, including one person who'd never had the stuff before. The sushi virgin pointed at the little lump of wasabi and asked what it was. Boss says, "Oh, that's wasabi. You just pop it in your mouth and eat it."

I believe he left the company shortly thereafter.
(tellum0 is spelled with an 'o', Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:54, 1 reply)

For personal experimentation, really
I ended up working with my flatmate - we'd get the tube in together in the mornings and when we got to the office, I'd get a cup of tea for me and a coffee for him.

Over a period of months, I added half a spoonful of coffee to his cup every so often. It wasn't until he'd been drinking six and a half spoonfuls per cup for a week and was such a complete jittery mess he could barely make a lucid phone call, that I confessed.

He didn't let me make coffee after that.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:49, 1 reply)

Looks like my dining out days are over..
Considering the 'itchy trigger/bi polar/knife's edge' attitudes alot of the posts already have and I'm betting will soon flood the boards with on the standards of what makes a 'bad customer', I've suddenly developed a fear of being served by a snot-nosed malicious twunt who would doubtlessly see my request for 'more bread please' as an excuse to defecate in my lasagne.
(wide walking will, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:03, 1 reply)

Last year I lived in halls
One horrid, loud woman living on my floor with an orange face used to write 'FUCK OFF' all over her milk cartons and food containers. I knew they were hers, so I used to nick a bit of her milk for a cup of tea once in a while :D
( its_hatorah_bitch is b3ta the devil you know on, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:50, 1 reply)

Mind Bleach
When I was a wee nipper I filled the kettle up with bleach one day. I thought it was a nifty trick and would fool whoever made the next cuppa into drinking a mouthful of foul tasting liquid. I waited patiently in the tv room while my mom made a cup of tea. I expected to hear her choking on her revolting beverage which would in turn make me cackle in delight. I had however not allowed for the fact that the kettle actually required heat to boil the water. Bleach and kettles, as I soon found out, don't really go well together.
The kitchen bloody stank, the kettle was ruined and I ended up with a smacked bottom. I never did it again so perhaps there is a message in corporal punishment after all...
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:17, Reply)

Falling out with the wife...
We went through a bad patch about ten years ago, and we both seriously thought of splitting up, mainly because I was a total, TOTAL git to her.

One morning, after the usual row and filled with righteous vengeance, I spat in her tea.

No matter how much I stirred, it wouldn't go away, and a large greenie kept floating to the surface.

"Did you gob in my tea?" she asked pointedly.

"Er... no," I lied "I sneezed making it though. Is there something wrong?"

She got her revenge by collecting all my toenail clippings from the bedroom carpet, grinding them up and putting them in my mashed potato. Which I ate and asked for more.

We're over it now, thanks.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:57, 4 replies)

This QOTW
Will consist mainly of the following:

*I was working in eatery of some description, someone was rude so I spat in their food.
*I was working in eatery of some description, someone was rude so I jerked off in to their food.
*I pissed in someones coffee/tea/other beverage
*I wiped my knob on their cup/mug/beaker
*I put pubes in someones food
*I got something really hot and put it in their food
*I put dog/cat food in their food
*I killed their parents and put them in the chilli that they are eating now

Oh wait that last one was South Park. But you get the point
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:43, 2 replies)

Last week
I invited my friend round for tea. I had planned it all week, his favourite food was Lasagne

^click on the link to see the sabotage
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 25 Sep 2008, 14:05, 7 replies)

food sabotage gone good
when you get kit kats that dont have the wafer...

so in fact are just a bar of chocolate.

I feel like ive won the lottery when that happens.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Thu 25 Sep 2008, 13:03, 5 replies)

muaaahaha i just remembered this
'twas the eve of the millenium. me and some friends were having a party at PhilliJoe's folks house. we were all in some kind of fancy dress.
my mate jimmy had consumed a heroic amount of guinness, and ballycastle (a noxious baileys substitue from aldi) and decided he had to vomit.
toilet occupied, he headed for the garden. he didn't want to desecrate the lawn, so he asked me for a receptacle.. in my drunken state i handed him an empty tesco's bag.

at this point i should mention he was wearing a miniskirt, tights, a crop top, toilet paper boobs and a bra and a big floppy dr seuss style union jack hat. he's also the least effeminate shaped one of us at the time.. this helps with the mental image y'see.

he decided that as the garden had a garage at the end that was locked, his best bet to dispose of the now rather full bag was to tie the handles, then swing it round like a one armed backstroke champion, eventually releasing it to describe a graceful arc over the garage into the night beyond.

alas, he failed to take into account his inebriated state, so on about the third revolution of the bag, he managed to hit himself in the back of the leg, sending a shower of curdled baileys and guinness high into tha air, and absolutely covering him and the walls and lawn.


oh how we laughed.


length? average but the explosion of goo was something to behold.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 23:03, 1 reply)

*Spit*? Pfft! Amateurs...
I would just like to take the opportunity to inform my former manager, Mr. Stephen Borrett, that every cup of tea I ever made him -- for two long, gruelling, painful years -- was 50% hot water and 50% my own stinking urine. And I had to work hard to stifle a gut-busting laugh every time you told me how delicious it was.

And *that*, my friend, is what you get for ordering a colleague of several years seniority, whom you outrank only on a technicality, to make you tea in a manner more befitting the retarded work experience lad (who, it must be noted, shat himself on duty).
(Orin delurked to post this gibberish on, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 20:22, 4 replies)

When I was a youngun
Around 6 or 7 my neighborhood kids were playing a game of football (Not the girly UK version, but the real american kick ass kind) and I wanted in. The older kids refused to let me play. So I went back to my house and pissed in a bandaid tin, (I think it was the only thing I could find that held liquid) and brought it out to my neighbor, told him I got him some juice cause he looked hot playing football. He said thanks, drank it in one slug and then started to yell at me in disgust. I ran away pretty fast and he couldn't catch me and I made it up to my tree house. He kept taunting me so I throw a Jart at him. It got stuck in his leg.

He never really talked to me after that, but I got to play football when ever he wasn't around from then on.
( Qwolf What can you do with out a dolly? ©, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 16:43, 18 replies)

Pizza hut buffet + chilli sprinkles = pant wetting laughter
Back in the day when I was a young Spangulum, once a week my friends and I used to ditch school dinners in favour of the pizza hut buffet. We had the same crowd that came along every time to enjoy a gutbusting meal: Joshi, myself, Brett and sometimes a straggler that wanted in on the action.

So one day, myself and Brett are feeling pretty rowdy. I got myself kicked out of my french class for falling asleep and when my teacher woke me up I called her a bitch (maybe if I called her 'le bitch' I would have been allowed to stay, who knows) and Brett was just being a little shite as usual so when we went to pizza hut, poor unsuspecting Joshi bore the brunt.

We all sat down and straight away ordered a coke each (unlimited cokes rule by the way) and then grabbed a plate and stocked up. We really abused their system.. so much pizza - so much pasta - salad.... my arse! We sat back down and Joshi then grabbed the chilli sprinkles and went to town, and I mean REALLY went to town. It was like a sea of chilli flakes with a sunken pizza boat in the middle. Brett and I just looked at each other and knew what the plan was - we just had to wait for the right time to execute it!

We all finished our first plates and Joshi jumped up ready to restock, this was our chance and we took it. Brett and I decided to stay at the table as we "needed a break" in between courses. Joshi left and we unscrewed the hell out of the chilli pot and just placed the lid on carefully. Just for posterity we also poured a shit load of salt into his coke and dropped in a few scabby pennies as well. Why not.

Joshi came back with a mound of food so large that it made me feel full just looking at it. It was massive. At least 6 slices of pizza, two huge scoops of the yummy pasta and a TONNE of garlic bread. It was immense. He made himself comfy in his chair - you could literally see him prepare his innards for the amount it was going to have to expand to encapsulate this mountain of proteins and carbs. The look on his face was a picture too - so proud of his achievement (the fat bastard).

Then he picked up the chilli pot, Brett and I were on the edges of our seats fighting back the laughter. I think a snot bubble even came out of my nose when the laughing pressure diverted without warning. He tipped it over whilst giving a shake and WHOOMPH there was chilli fucking everywhere.

ALL over the plate, the table, the floor, his lap... EVERYWHERE!!! We just creased up as the mess, combined with the look on his face was priceless. It was the look of shock combined with sheer depression as if we had just taken a dump and smeared the offerings onto the Mona Lisa. We ruined his masterpiece and suffice it to say, his lunch.

What was even funnier though was his reaction. He took 3 napkins and very carefully and strategically placed them over his plate then simply pushed it to the side of the table. He got up, got a new plate and rebuilt his food tower. Legend.

The drink sabotage however was a total failure. He didn't even taste the salt as it all sank to the bottom and he didn't find the coins as he didn't finish his drink. Oh well, 1 out of 2 wasn't bad.

Length? - He still doesn't trust me in Pizza Hut to this day (and this was around 11 years ago now!
(Spangulum nailing your mother since 1824, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 8:42, 7 replies)

Apple Juice?
After a midnight run through the streets when i was 15 me and a couple of mates arrived back to his mum's house after being chased by a group of drunks. Safely inside, one of the mates that didn't reside there opened the fridge with the intent of imbibing a large amount of cold liquid. A tall glass jug of delicious looking apple juice sat wanly on the top shelf, joy thinks he as he necks about a pint's worth of recycled cooking oil his mum was storing. The look on his face as he realized what he had drunk was priceless, but the dog eating eating his oily spew as he produced it on the back porch was a joyous and always remembered occasion.
(neighbour of the beast 668 has watched you in secret on, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 7:23, 2 replies)

beetroot + ribena - she'll never know it was me
a long, long time ago, back in the day when a little nightbuffalo was just a little bit littler, said family were sitting around the dining table, eating a salad on one of those carefree, hot summer days of my childhood that now seems like a golden age.

I picked up my fork, leant forward and reflected on the feast that lay before me.

I had eaten all the chicken.
Hell, I had consumed ALL the tasty stuff (the chicken).

What's left? My eyes survey the platter of mother's goodness. Some pasta rip-off of potato salad. Eurgh. Celery. FFS. Lettuce, tomatoes. Beetroot. Effing vegetables.

"How much more do I have to eat before I can finish?" I asked.

"Ten more mouthfuls," replied my mum.

"Oh, fuksoxs, you fuknuckle," I most certainly did not think at the time.

"I shall attack the beetroot," is probably what I thought. And I did attack that obstacle between me and my bicycle, or some such toy-related fun.

I stick my fork in to the red beast.

It jumped clean four inches in the air and landed with a satisfying "plop" into my sister's cup of ribena, and no-one noticed.

Damn, my carefree days became a little more carefree-less. Sugar! What to do, what to do?

The options - own up, or sit there, sweat it out and hope she didn't notice.

I sweated it out.
She noticed.

Big sisters can slap surprisingly hard.
Little brothers can cry surprisingly loudly.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Wed 24 Sep 2008, 1:07, Reply)

Sabotage the meal, not the food!
I was at my ex-wifes parents house one Sunday for a meal. There was her mum and her boyfriend, her sister and her boyfriend, and me and the wife.

As normally happened I was getting the short end of the stick from the in-laws due to the fact that they were all 'Born Again Christians' and I don't believe in any type of god.

So about half way through the meal the conversation turns to spiritual matters, and I'm keeping my mouth full with food so that I don't start argueing with them about the shit that's sprewing out of their mouths. They were of the type of people who believed every word in the bible ffs!

Finally they decide to have a conversation that I would join in with and started to talk about the food, where they got it, how nice it was and so on. Great I thought, now I can get some revenge for the crap that I've just had to sit and listen to. I then preceded to ecplain to them exactly how the veal we were eating got to the table, and just how the farmer raises it and how it's slaughtered! They all went white and one of them had to rush to the toilet to puke.

I was never ask back for a meal after that, for which I was thankful! I did manage to snaffle the veal all to myself though, which was good.
(Herr Doktor Lemminge Is bored, so cheer me up!, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 13:27, 8 replies)

Hashy sabotage
This is the way to piss your younger brother off an absolute treat.

Myself and my brother, who is 1 year younger than me at a meagre 19, enjoy the odd spliff. Every half hour. Of every night. I exaggerate, but not by much. Now as is the bain of most tokers, we both smoke cigarettes as well, seeing as sparking up a phatty in public isn't the 'done thing'. We both enjoy our sedentary lifestyles, he's gone off to uni to toke in a different part of the country for 3 years, and I'm happy enough in my 9-5.

At this point I should introduce brother No.3, who I shall name 'Harry'. 'Harry' is a bit of a bastard, because he is 16, and all 16 year old boys are little bastards, as we know. He's a lazy, rude, obnoxious little git, and as arrogant as anyone I know. I have faith that his ego will shrink to fit his ample frame. A curious thing about Harry, aside from his bizarre hatred of cheese/love of pizza, is his complete rejection of anything smokable. He'll drink for England, but so far as I know has never had a cigarette, let alone a joint. Given that in our house, everyone besides him smokes, you would think he would grow to accept the fact, but no. He remains a 'you filthy smoker, go into the corner and pull your own nicotine-stained teeth out with pliers' type. Despite pickling his liver whenever the mood takes him. Now I've never been one to berate people for NOT smoking, but felt Harry could use taking down a notch or two, or at least let him know why we smoke. But getting him to actually smoke would be more than a little weird, so we decided just to get him baked, without even knowing.

Whilst he's not a fan of cheese, cakes are a definite yes. So a Q of the finest generic cannabis was procured, finely ground, and added to chocolate brownie mix. Baked for 12 minutes, cut into slices and left to cool, Harry was duly offered a slice or 2 of suspiciously herby smelling brownie. Mmmm... there's a good boy, gobble it down.

Long story short, Harry spent the next few hours giggling like a loon and generally being nicer than usual. Once the effects had worn off though, he was just absolutely outraged that he had been 'spiked'. The drug-abusing stoner bastard.
( Rookie You'll have to speak up, I'm wearing a towel, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 11:59, 4 replies)

someone did it to me.....
I recently bought a tin of mexcian beans and made a really nice chilli beef nachos thing. When we all sat down to eat it my step daughter noticed something on her plate resembling a herb or something, if only. It turned out to be a lovely 6 legged arachnid! So 2 questions:

a) Who has it in for me?
b) Where did the other 2 legs go?

and yes I did carry on eating it (minus the spider)
(Studentken is looking for motivation on, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 9:51, 1 reply)

Can't see it posted again this week
And apologies as I can't remember who originally wrote it. But one of my favourite ever QOTW answers involved this poor bloke who came back from a night out absolutely off his tits.

He then attempted to make a fry up but in the dark and the drunkeness mistook the washing up liquid for cooking oil.

It also reminds me of the time at uni when my flatmate came home and decided he wanted some pasta and pesto. Unfortunately he didn't have any pasta left so he just ate the full jar of pesto with a spoon. In the morning his breath could have cut through metal and the memory still makes me snort coffee out of my nose!
(Milo Minderbinder, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 9:36, 3 replies)

Oh the joy!
First post, after 6 years of reading I am finally posting, woo!

A couple of years ago I was living with a fella who was quite frankly a complete prick! He was a bully and very controlling.

Anyway I was pretty much trapped in the relationship and had to endure verbal and physical absue whether he was drunk or sober. The only little bit of joy I held on to was cooking dinner. I would "accidentally" drop his food on the floor and walk on it (with shoes on, often wellies with extra mud). A cup of tea also came with a side of dirty dish cloth which i would swill around with great delight!

The worst thing I ever did though was when things got particularly bad I took to wiping his toothbroush around the toilet bowl (his own toilet as well, so it was particularly nasty)! I imagine that brushing your teeth with your own faeces is not very good for you, but in my opinion he absolutely deserved it.

You will be pleased to know I now have a lovely fella and I have never since done anything unspeakable to any food stuffs I have served or toothbrushes left unattended!!!
(ickledoozer last played ball-in-a-cup on, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 9:18, 1 reply)

Making a bit of a hash of things...
This is a tale of accidental and very mild sabotage.

It occurred long ago. So long in fact that not only was I consuming THC with alarming regularity, but the THC was more often than not contained within solid brown lumps.

Already stoned, but in pursuit of a greater high, I sat at the coffee table beside my flatmate, and proceeded to build a spliff, as I believe the modern vernacular would described such an activity.

The papers sat splayed, cushioning a nest of tobacco into which I crumbled lightly toasted lumps of soapbar, or so I thought.

Being that I was already heady from the effect of previous reefers, I failed spectacularly to pay sufficient attention to the task at hand.

It was only the drawled "hey, man. Why are you putting hash on my dinner?" that alerted me to my error.

The act itself that wasn't wholly unwelcome; stoners being content to take the drug however it may be delivered, but my fumbling around his dinner plate, scraping chips clean of their unusual condiment before returning them wasn't so warmly accepted.

It was quite a greasy spliff by the time I'd finished.
( Moey, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 14:44, Reply)

Wine: It's all bullshit
Have you seen that episode of 'Black Books' where Bernard and Manny drink a bottle of very expensive wine by accident?

Well, my then-girlfriend and I did that once. We were having a party at her mum's place, and I had a rummage through the kitchen cupboards to find some booze. Ahh! Wine!

I cracked it open and we drunk the lot. It was only the next day, as we cleaned up the carnage, that I happened to glance at the label.

It was from 1985. Oops.

What did we do? Well, I went to Tesco, got a bottle of cheap plonk for £2.25, and decanted it into the bottle through a funnel.

Her mum drunk that wine a few months later, when her and her boyfriend got married. Apparently it was 'delicious'.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:54, 3 replies)

Petty jokes go awry.....
Workmate thinks he´s funny.We are both dancers and practical joking is the name of the game.

He throws talc at me before i go onstage.
I retaliate with itching powder in the trousers.
He kicks me in the shins before curtain up.
I advertise his "services" in the local newspaper in the masseur section.
He puts a LIGHTBULB in my shoe(which I had to put on rather quickly.....).A step too far and I congratulate him on being the "winner" before we start severing each other´s limbs
etc..

However,the fool was trying to bulk up and religiously drank a Protein shake before the show.So,for about a month,I added ever-growing doses of potent laxative to it.
The first week was uneventful,but by the fourth week he was worried that he had a stomach bug,as he "can´t stop shitting".
I came clean the day he actually pooed himself onstage (not enough for the audience to notice,but certainly enough for him to cry about it),and countered his threats of revenge by stating the obvious fact that I have no scruples and could/should have done a lot worse.
He was very nice to me after that.
(shirleytemplesarse, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:09, Reply)

A nice one...
A long time ago in a county not so far away a young student, who would later be my girlfriend, turned up for work as a packer at a chocolate factory.

Sadly not Willy Wonkers Chocolate factory, but a certain dark green liveried company who pack exactly the same chocolates in Tesco Value boxes as there own.

The hero of this story is a chocolate lover of epic proportions, but this doesn't involve her bingeing on chocolate, that would be stealing.

In an inspired moment of Robin Hood-esque wealth redistribution she decided that it would be nice to put an extra chocolate in every box!

Imagine opening a box of tongue smotheringly lovely bites of sweet chocolate only to realise that there are two of your favourite! A thousand extra little smiles around the country, a simple gesture of giving in a selfish world.

Unfortunately every box is weighed and if it is too light, missing chocolates, or too heavy, extra chocolates, the box is rejected.

My girlfriends packing line missed their targets that day by some margin.

No one could quite understand what had gone so wrong.




She didn't go back.
( Naked Ape call me Caitlyn, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 11:03, Reply)

Pissing babooons
Whilst travelling, we pitched up to a campsite. within half an hour, our camp was attacked by baboons. Now, baboons are evil creatures, dont let anyone tell you otherwise. They got into our trailer full of food, and were ripping apart cans with their teeth. evil bastards.

We forgot about this, and decided to go on to our next destination. A few days later, we were cooking over an open fire. This was a large meal for everyone (20 plus), and everyoe was somewhat starving. chicken was chopped, veg was chucked in, and there was a good deal of spices for taste.

We got about an hour into the cooking time before we realized the chicken tasted of methylated spirits. Y'see, the blue-bottomed buggers had managed to open a bottle of the stuff, which we used for cooking when we couldnt get a fire, and poured it liberally over all our food. So we had to throw it all away.

I lost a stone that holiday. Mostly because we would take two bites of food, and realized it still tasted of meths. Tasty blinding meths. If you see a baboon, punch it in the face for me.
(Urban Hermit Exit, pursued by a bear on, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 9:38, 2 replies)

Parents
My parents were going out one evening when I was younger, leaving me alone at home. I was shouted that my dinner (pasta with tomato & meat sauce) was on the table. I got downstairs, and the dog was stood on a chair, with his face in my dinner. I called Dad, who pulled him off the chair... and then made me eat the massacred remains of the meal.

I still can't eat bolognese :(
(Merrep, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 23:30, 2 replies)

My uni flatmates
put tabasco in my tea.

Because I've never had tabasco before, they told me the teabag must have split, and that would be why it tasted funny. Well, it seemed plausible.

The third or fourth time they did it, I said "christ, PG Tips are fucking unreliable" and they laughed for nearly twenty minutes and then came clean.
( Reid got it going on like Donkey Kong, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 23:02, Reply)

This one time
I invented new coke.

It didn't go down very well.

Gillian Taylforth did though.

(bored with these qotw's why can't we do a different type of written comp altogether? Q's have run their course. Since it's weekly we could do topical joke/sketch/satire of the week then publish a book at the end of the year. And give me the money.)
( BadBadman saw an incorrect comma placement on, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 21:34, 4 replies)

A warning.
As a student I occasionally resided in the familial box located upon the Lincolnshire flats; back in the days before the Polish willingly took the jobs the locals grudgingly forsook welfare in favour of, and students greedily devoured during their regular, lengthy breaks from taking drugs and drinking studying.

Whilst there, one company who swapped a measly wage in return for hard labour was in the business of the food business, and they were generous enough to thrust some work toward this diminutive slap-head, sometimes known as Gunther.

Rousing my still inebriated brain from its pillowy comfort before the sun had done the same, I trudged angrily to the rendezvous and clambered into the nicotine stained minibus that impatiently spat clouds of used diesel into the crisp morning air.

My new friends and I were whisked away to the deepest, darkest plains of Lincolnshire and ejaculated at the door of a food processing monolith, where my hangover jerked back to life as the overwhelming stench taunted my nasal cavity.

We filed brainlessly past the hand steriliser and allowed ourselves to be clad in clean shiny overalls, before wandering into what felt like the bowels of an alien space ship.

Having suitably adjusted my head cover I eyed up the monsters at the controls, and realised immediately why the minibus had to make its collections before sunrise: the majority of these people would have melted should the sun so much have caressed their scaled skin.

The hirsute hand of teenwolf's gran clasped my reluctant fingers and lead me to one of the thundering machines, where she grunted first at a copious vat of coleslaw, then at the large plastic spoon with which I was to stir it.

This was to be my station for the following 10 hours, save a brief lunch gap and the few sneaky cigarette breaks that I was able to take, and I began observing one of the most horrific scenes that has ever been accepted by my eyes, regardless of how recalcitrant they were about doing so.

I’m reluctant to list the horrors I witnessed. Suffice to say I’ve not eaten pre-packed coleslaw or its mayonnaisey brethren ever since, and I feel it would be unfair to inflict the sickening details onto you, my dear b3tans.

This was indiscriminate, unprovoked and depraved sabotage at its most extreme and my one consolation was that I lasted only a single day, and did so without succumbing to the widely accepted abuse of cheap salad based produce that was merrily practised by my alien co-workers.

If you are to take only one thing from this lengthy stream of gibberish, it should be this: do not, by any means consider the consumption of this vile jism; it is unfit for human taste, containing as it does all manner of human waste.
( Moey, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 20:55, 3 replies)

A bit lame, but...
As a kid, my Dad had been a miserable bugger this fated day, and then sent me off to make coffee for him and Mum.

We had a pot plant so I liberally laced Dad's coffee with some soil. Yum.

He drank the lot, and it cheered me up no end. I've never told him, and he doesn't read B3ta, so I should be safe.

Told you it was a bit lame.
( VandenPlas can't think of anything clever - no change there!, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 10:31, Reply)

My first post...
hello, my first post, its only took me 2 years to confirm my email address or something but feel I have a story for this week at least so thought I'd finally join. oh a few have stopped reading already, fucking cunts.

Anyway it was a few years ago and it was a summer day when we used to get sun, and bbqs were the usual thing to do with the sun. Anyway it was a long day and the drink got to a few people and it resulted in me and my mate snaithy and graeme left at around 2 in the morning and everyone else fucking off. Graeme retired to sleeping in my bed. Ive got nothing the matter with him sleeping in my bed but he was an easy target and between me and snaithy anyone falling asleep at this point was a puff or something.

So instead of sabotaging any food, (that will come mind) we decided to sabotage graeme with food and also my room a bit. Some reason in my drunken state covering him in bbq sauce seemed like the ideal solution with a finishing topping of sunflower seeds to give him some texture. Im sure the thoughts of lepers was going through my mind at the point but I doubt I was that witty at that period in my life.

Anyway we woke him up, he was pissed off, I apologised like the oaf I am and he went in the shower, but least he was awake and didnt want to go to sleep again. Scene 2 whilst he was in the shower we didnt want the fun to end and with having the porch doors open all day we had a few visitors in the house and climbing the walls, yes, lots of big daddy long legs.

So I went about catching about double figures of the fuckers and stuffing them all in the bottle of cider that I knew Id be able to coax him into drinking when he came back down. And alas he came down to watch whatever tosh we had on tv, 'oh heres your drink graeme', 'oh thanks' the reply. Anyway he gulps some down and stops, we were pretty much pissing ourselves as expected, even more so with him pulling a leg out of his mouth. who goes on to say, 'who the fucks put pubes in my drink?!'

since so many people left and a friend called aaron had been there earlier who would be suspectible to such an act we blamed it on him and got away scot-free.
(Runcle, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 1:50, 2 replies)

Customers sometimes deserve it....
I work in a restaurant/café, and the clientele are usually lovely, but sometimes you get some knobbish old people who think they have rights over everyone younger than them.

you know, the ones that push in bus queues, saying it's their right to go first, or that they should be served first in shops because they were born first. twunts.

anyhoo, im not a thin guy, but i wouldnt say im hugely fat, just a muscularish build, with a mild student vodka gut. But apparently i'm still a target for geriatric abuse...

I went over to a table with some old woman on it, chatting to her friend about how the youth of today are all either on heroin, pregnant, infected with HIV, or a combination of all the above, and handed to her her strawberries and cream.

Instead of the usual "Thank you very much", or "Cheers" I instead heard the following comment:

"Goodness gracious me, look at all this cream...if we eat all this we'll be the same size as the waiter!"

Well, let's just say when she ordered her post-dessert coffee, there was probably more bodily fluid in it than water.

Bitch. Hope your false teeth fall out in the night and choke you. or your stoma bag bursts and you slip on your own shit.

/rant over :)
(the_biochem_ninja can resist everything except temptation, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 1:36, 2 replies)

Innocent victim of squaddie humour?
1985. Step-sister, marrying a Para. A very decent couple. Just trying to do the best. Lovely wedding and reception at the officers mess. Me, naive 16 year old. Perfectly happy to be escorted to said do in a minibus with my new family. Sounds nice and respectable. Happy to quaff champagne. Admiring the white camouflage adorning the reception. Slightly inexperienced in handling the drink, but I was coping. Sat next to older, more experienced, friends and relatives. Toasting. Listening to speeches. Feeling slightly uncomfortable in my corduroy suit from Woolworths (poor me!).Laughing along like I knew what it meant. Enjoying the inevitable courses of food.
Then came the pudding. Strawberry cheesecake. Only mine contained an added extra. A black, thick, curly, pubic hair. Sat amongst the cheesecakedness of it all. Poking out and waving at me. I ate around it. I didn¡¦t complain. I was too young to. I would like to say that I coped with it but I spent the rest of the evening by throwing up on myself, other people, the bride, the floor, the toilets, and the minibus on the way home and slept until 1 o¡¦clock the next day, when everyone greeted me with disgust.
I still wish I had had the courage to say something about the disgusting pube. I wish i had not tried to drink my way out of the situation. And also, I wish I had had have the bravery to tell them about the 35 year old that was at the wedding too, who had been taking advantage of me sexually, for months.
Actually, the advances of a man that should have known better, I got over, but I never understood the presence of an unwanted hair in my cheesecake!
I know better now.
( Itsallsugar is made up of bits of names, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 20:58, Reply)

Hmm...
I don't think I would ever soil someone's food, no matter how irritating they are.
I mean, what has the food ever done to you?
I'd much rather gob on them instead.
( Mellicious is made of candy, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 17:47, 1 reply)

Unintended, but still most definitely sabotage...
Back when I lived in Essex I played pool for my dad's pub team. Every Tuesday was pool night: a few games of pool followed by celebration or commiseration, and then some food, laid on by the home team's pub.

Home games usually involved a huge tray of sandwiches or some weeks sausages and chips. For some reason, when it was sandwiches the egg ones were the most popular by some long margin.

One of the guys on the team was Barry, a strange guy. He was about 6'4", kept very much to himself (in fact he hardly spoke to anyone, ever) and crap at pool. However, he was mad for the food at the end of the night: some had postulated that perhaps it was his only meal of the week, such was his enthusiasm.

The night in question, Barry had played his game of pool and gone to the lounge bar while the match continued. At the end of the night the tray of sandwiches came out and the inevitable "impression of a badly-bahaved Russian bread queue crossed with Hyenas round a carcass" began.

One of my friends had a sandwich in his hand but realised there was only one egg sandwich left on the try so he wouldn't get it in time. What to do? He picked it up with his free hand and licked it, then put it down on the side of the tray, much to everyone's disgust. Still, mission accomplished; the sandwich was his.

Except that then came a thundering of high speed footsteps as Barry realised he was missing his dinner. Thundering in from the lounge bar, he scanned the tray and, spotting his prize, picked up the last remaining egg sandwich and wolfed it down.

At the time, my friend and I fell about laughing, but as I've typed this I've realised how utterly horrible it sounds.


Length? Only a couple of inches, even less if you left the crusts.
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 13:33, Reply)

my (sheltered) housemate in halls abhored the word cunt
so in my red stripe and weed fueled wisdom thought it would be uproariously funny to scribe the word into her (fiercely guarded) tub of Flora.

My intention was just to use her most taboo word and annoy her once again..

This was five years ago now and i've only this year realised i was effectively calling her a cunt. Thinking back, the relationship was definitely strained for the remaining months of our time together
( applehead herp derp, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 13:13, Reply)

Michael Winner
Michael Winner came into my restaurant for lunch a few weeks ago. It was an incredibly busy service, so nobody had the time to spunk into his soup.

He sent it back saying it tasted funny.




*May not be true

**May be ripped off from Viz too
( HoratioFellatio Taking the the out of psychotherapist, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 10:37, 3 replies)

Halloween Naughtiness
My dad hates trick-or-treaters so we conveniently never had anything to give them. I guess the hatred has kinda rubbed off on us a bit. One year my brother and i made them sprouts dipped in white chocolate. For the record, they look but do not taste like ferrero rocher.

We didn't get any trick-or-treaters the next year. But they should've realised - who would waste ferrero rocher on a fat kid in a pointy hat?
(sniffle is full of shit, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 9:00, Reply)

I need a weeeeee!!!
We used to be fairly bad at work for playing practicle jokes on each other. This got so bad in the end that when it was tea time, everybody would stand around protecting their cups like a bunch of wild animals protecting their latest kill.

Reason for this was that somebody had brought in some Viagra and that soon found its way into peoples lunch etc. But the best was yet to come...

My dear old mate Bill, has an older sister- bless her! She has a few health problems and was taking water tablets. These make you pee within about 10 minutes of taking them and dissolve nicely in tea. The first incident occurred driving back to the depot when at about 40 miles an hour my crewman opened the door and jumped out! Odd I thought? Stranger was that he got back to our depot faster than me by cutting cross town and crossing several busy roads including a Motorway!

It turned out he needed a pee- badly just as I pulled up in the van I saw his red face shout "Oh no not again" and he ran back inside. This happened to lots of us over the next month or so and in the end we had to make a pact and sign it so say that we would stop touching other peoples food or drink because it was getting well out of hand. Most of us had brought in changes of clothes by this point.
(piercee100, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 5:49, Reply)

My friends are more adventurous than me
Out with friends tonight I brought up this subject of food sabotage.
One doesnt own a computer, the other two have never heard of B3ta.
so its up to me to pass on their stories.
Girlfriend A told me about one Xmas a few years ago she decided to do boxes of handmade liquour chocolates for all her workmates.
Spent a fortune on moulds, high quality chocolate and hours making different alcohol infused sugar syrup.
Each box would hold 10 delicious confections.
Over the 4 days she spent making them she would always find a few missing from each batch when she came to box them.
As she shared a flat with only one other girl, the finger of suspicion didnt have to point very far.
So one night she made a batch and left them to cool as usual.
However, one lot was filled with neat tabasco sauce, one with an anchovie, another with the scrapings from the grill pan, another with washing up liquid and the last with a liquidised piece of banana peel.
She said she didnt sleep much that night due to the constant bathroom use of her flatmate :)
Nothing was ever said LOL

Girlfriend 2 told me of problems she had with an ex boss.
She worked in a pub one summer and he was a right sleazoid who always kept telling her that he would *taste* her one day.
On her last day before going back to college the sleazoid told her he was sad he never got to fulfil his promise.
As she picked up her pay packet she sweetly informed him that he had.
For the last month, every time he asked her to make him a cuppa, she had put a finger into her pants rummaged around and then rubbed it across the rim of his favourite mug.
Cant repeat the words that were then exchanged ;)

And finally
Guy who currently works in a local gastro pub.
Told me, and to pass it on.
Never never ever select a dish from the specials board.
Its usually dishes made up from the previous weeks leftovers that they desperately need to get rid of if they are to make any profit.

Duly noted, no more specials for me, even if free
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 1:41, 1 reply)

i am a chef,
we have to work 14 hours a day, in appauling conditions so the only way to cheer yourself up is to take the piss out of the other chefs, always getting one over on each other.
One of my favourite tricks is to rub a chilli around the rim of somebody's drink, gets instant satisfying results!My favourite has to be the time i switched the sous chefs glass of coke with a glass of re-used duck fat(very similar in colour), during an extremely busy dinner service, needless to say he did not see the funny side after spewing all over the kitchen floor.
I dont know if this counts but the amount of times ive put an egg in a chefs hood on a rainy day before they finish work is countless, i never get to see it happen but imagining it is great and they are not very pleased the next morning.
(trapdoorberk, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 1:27, Reply)

Mmmm..salty...
An ex of mine was rather proud of this one:

Whilst working his sizeable ass off in a well known, and apparently high class restaurant in Denver, long, hot shifts lasting 13 hours plus were not unusual. On one such arduous day, said ex was as usual the last one out, had just shut down the sizeable kitchen, and sat hisself down at the bar for the first of many strong drinks. All done..knackered, and ready to get wasted.

His manager interupts his quiet contemplation, insisting he must return to the kitchen, and cook more food. f*** that says ex..but the manager insists. Why? Because members of a well known and very popular boy band had entered the establishment, and demanded nourishment.

Ex duly returns to huge kitchen, where he has to single handedly set up everything (I understand that this took some time) to prepare their order. What did these evil little purveyors of sheer crapness request? One of eveything on the ample menu. Bunch of twunts.

Fellas will understand the next part..imagine you've been slaving away in a very hot kitchen for 13 hours, running around and working hard. Imagine that your dimensions are also rather large (ok ok, you're a fat, sweaty f***er at the best of times, but after a day of work, you just aint fragrant). Now imagine what "weather conditions" such as humidity would be like in your nether regions. You can see where I'm going with this one..

Ex dutifully and lovingly prepared a feast unlike any other for satans little hellspawn, and with each piece of meat, indeed each element of every dish, gleefully wipes away the days bollock-dew...

After serving this cornucopia of gastronomic delights, he went to see how the lads found their meal. All of them rated it top notch tucker, and advised him it was delicious.

I am sure that he is not the only person who can say that the Back Street Boys ate his ball-sweat (and loved it), but maybe the only person who can claim such a feat in this context. Not that they're gay or anything...

Never piss off a fat chef, eh kids?
(Carmen Dyslexia, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 18:13, Reply)

More library tales
Every Thursday we have a bunch of old folk and "specials" turn up for what are called "health walks". They meet in the library, all wear spcaker day-glo backpacks and go off walking for an hour and come back. For reasons never clearly explained to me we are expected to put on hot water, tea and biscuits for them. I could tolerate this, if they were particularly nice people.

Unfortunately the walk leader is an old, sinewy lady who is a spiteful, stuck up, rude shitsniffing bastardface. She quite often treats the staff like idiotic waiters, demanding this, that and the other, apparently forgetting that our job is...y'know, books and stuff.

Because of this, the following things have been added to/dipped into the jugs of water we give them.

- Spit (obviously)
- Condoms (dipped)
- Eraser pens (dipped)
- A teeny bit of vodka
- A fingernail
- A fart
- A little washing up liquid.

The thing is, since most of them are incoherent and drooling anyway, there's no way of telling if these additions are having any effect. Oh well.

Hellward bound...I wish I was...hellward bound
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:16, 4 replies)

!!!!!
Mad Laura at work said to me the other day:

"My flatmate was driving me mad last night, asking to borrow my computer".

"Oh dear!" I said. "What did you do, say no?".

"No, I put washing powder in her fucking bedtime milk".

gosh.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:08, Reply)

food sabotage
Some years ago I had the misfortune to be romantically involved with control freak bloke. He worked shifts and was in the habit of turning up at all hours and eating the contents of my fridge. I made a pie out of dog food mince...spiced it up a bit, made it look nice with pastry from the depths of my freezer. When I got home from work it was gone...
He was unwell for quite some time.
I dumped him too.
(Jessypuss Fiddling with stuff since 1957, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:49, Reply)

Rewind back 28 years to the playground in the early 80's
Go on.. Smell the Cheese

Quickly followed by a crying child running to the nurse with a nosebleed.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:06, Reply)

While still in school
I posted myself next to the coffee machine that also made tea, hot chocolate and soup.

During about half an hour, I told everyone who wanted something from the machine that the caretaker told me to inform them that he didn't fill it properly. He was supposedly now in the back making a sign to put up on the machine.
Thus, if you wanted a tea, you'd have to choose the soup. And if you wanted coffee, you'd have to press for hot chocolate, et cetera.

Sure enough, about three quarters of the people walked away with the wrong hot beverage.

I thought I was really cunning at the time.
( mediocre ha ha ha, you're reading this, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 16:02, Reply)

Oh, and
I once cut up some bluetac into neat little rectangles and tried to pass them off as new raspberry chewits. I even got one person to bite into it.

...Bah, not much in my storybag for this QOTW. I shall have to start pacing myself.
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 15:15, 1 reply)

Boss fart laa!
This is my first ever propper post on a B3ta QOTW. So anyhow...

I'd just started this job within a small company as the general office run around/parts person.

The MD asked me to make him a brew, I did and apparently it was in the wrong mug, so I was sent back to the kitchen to make another fresh cup on tea in a different colour mug as he didn't drink out of anything but white mugs (and I was supposed to know this how?!).

I decided to fart in the new white mug before brewing up, I held it to the seat of my trousers and let rip, a propper beer fart aided by the previous nights Stella.

I couldn't help but giggle as I watched him drink the tea afterwards. Awesome!
(spackattack - Attack of the Spack, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:26, Reply)

Isn't putting stuff like rotting animals
and human waste in people's food really dangerous for health? Couldn't it make someone seriously ill? You bunch of sadistic fucks.
(Youlotfeckingsuck, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:17, 18 replies)

I could have a sabotage story on the way...
We get lots of stuff delivered to where I work that has those little sachets of silica gel in them. It occured to me the other day how remarkably like packets of sugar they are, so I've nestled a few amongst the sugar packets.

That stuff isn't lethal to ingest is it?
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 11:05, 6 replies)

accidental kebabotage
Me mate told be about this once; he got home from a night out and had to be quiet as he was living with his gran at the time. He sneaks into the house in the early hours carrying his prize; a full size kebab with all the trimmings. After stumbling about aimlessly, he decides to stash the kebab somewhere and have it the next morning.
He wakes up early the next day and cleans himself up. Goes downstairs and suddenly remembers about the kebab. Shit, where'd I leave it? Runs upstairs, nope not in the bedroom. Quick glance in the bathroom, not there. Goes downstairs, checks in the living room, nope. Goes to the kitchen, looks in the microwave, breadbin, a few cupboards, nout.
Wtf? Checks the bin, that's clean too.
Ah well, lets have some cornflakes thinks he. Gets a bowl ready, opens the fridge...there's the kebab on the top shelf. It stank the entire fridge out. Every item of food in the fridge was infected by the smell; the butter, the veg, ham etc all stank of it.
He threw the kebab in the bin and ate his cornflakes with kebab-flavoured milk. His gran had to re-fill the fridge later on.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:24, Reply)

Didn't even disguise it
My cousins 12 year old came to stay for a few days. He loves money. So we usually get him to "perform" for his pocket money.

"Drink this cap full of Tabasco and I'll give you a fiver"

And he did, poor little buggers eyes were watering.

Well, it was a catering sized bottle.
(Yellow Car is now red, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:16, 1 reply)

Elastic Sandwidge
There was a guy we used to work with who we shall refer to as Steve, for that was his name....

Steve used to bring sandwiches to work every day and after a time we found that these were lovingly made by his mother. He always had tuna sandwiches (because he was in "training") which used to make him feel sick when he ate them, so we used to sit round his desk burping at him whilst he ate them. This made him REALLY want to gip and was really funny at the time, but I digress.

The best jape we pulled was when we put elastic bands in his tuna sarnies and he sat there chewing for absolutely ages before he uttered the immortal words...

"These sarnies are a bit rubbery today"

He didn't swallow.

I suppose you had to be there...
(SillyMoo, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:10, 2 replies)

Bogies
This was waaay back when I was at school, and it was against our Latin teacher, so if memory serves, our reasons for doing it was because he was...well, a Latin teacher.

He had a habit of leaving the room quite a lot, which is really not a good idea when it's an all boys secondry school full of some utter scallywags. Anyway, my best mate of the time thought it would be amusing to put a bogie in the teacher's coffee. We all sniggered as he downed his cup of tea without even noticing it (which raises a question of physics. For him to not have noticed, the bogie must have sunk. I always thought bogies floated. Oh well).

Anyway, he decided to up the ante every day, adding another bogie every day. He got up to 9 bogies before he noticed. He actually cried a bit when he worked it out, poor thing.
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:05, Reply)

Sorry
I have a small round shield given to me by a scottish relative ("Just like they used at Culloden...". Interestingly, it has a design featuring an american wrestler in some sort of headdress hitting a metal bowl with a stick, apparently making music of some kind.

It's my Fou d'Sabu Targe.
(puerile is really getting into seagulls lately., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 22:50, Reply)

Once, back in the dim distant...
past, my habit was to make quite realistic looking shits out of whipped cream, cocoa and butter and leave them, in clay ramekins, on my colleagues' doorsteps.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 20:54, 1 reply)

Here, drink this...
My friend Karl, for all his good qualities, is not the most quiet or sane of people when drunk. And what with this being his 18th birthday, he was monumentally drunk.

So drunk, in fact, that he agreed to drink anything we bought him. Big mistake.

It's an interesting if little - known fact that baileys, mixed with anything other than more baileys, curdles into a foul substance closely remembling cat sick, but without the charm. Even Baldrick would be ashamed.

Into one glass we got: Baileys, lime, guiness, stella, vodka, rum and wray and nephew - 63% rum. One sniff was enough to make you retch. Karl grabs the glass and takes a mighty swig. It was quite interesting to watch his expression change over the next half second or so, before he totally lost it. Hopping about, retching, shouting for water, and right now...

Cue a glass full of neat vodka. The reaction to this was even better.

And then cue the genius that is my friend Alex handing Karl the first glass back again with the immortal words "Have some beer Karl, it'll take the taste away".

So Karl, desperately trying to escape the taste of liquid death, downs the rest.

We didn't see him again that evening...
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:53, 1 reply)

Drink my cloudy piss you scummer
Christmas eve probably '98 or '99. In the "daffodil and hat" (name changed to protect me 'cos I'm guilty of some other things)
I was not long out of hospital and looking gorgeous with my NHS wheelchair and legbag. The leg bag was full, the toilets where
a: up two steps
b: the other side of a rammed and heaving pub
c:full of piss.
So I emptied my leg bag into a handy pint glass and put it on the window sill.
After some minor circulating (trying to get close enough to a fit filly to make spider legs up her legs) I see the pint glass being investigated by a drunk skint scummer. His investigation wasn't that thorough.
something like ...
1: It's a glass
2: It's full of cloudy yellow liquid
3: SLURP SLURP SLURP.
Twat
I really hope you enjoyed drinking my cloudy warm piss. But I have a question for you.
Did you really not realise what you where drinking?
I only ask because you did finish the pint damn quickly. Worried about it's owner claiming it or something?
No worries mate, I would have given it too you if you had asked.
Twat
(godisdove I like cheese, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:34, Reply)

Grass water
Me and my best friend were in his back yard, taking any substance that could be mushed into a liquid and mixing it into a bucket. We added a few body fluids but not any of the serious ones that would be impossible for a couple of ten-year-olds.

I suggested we bring it over to my home to feed to my sister.

My sister answered the door (I was hiding around the corner) and my best friend said "Try this, it's the new flavour of Kool-Aid."

My sister said. "You first," wisely.

So my best friend leaned back and took a good swig of the mixture of ground-up grass, spit, dirt, etc, that we had. He meant to pretend to drink it, but he ended up drinking deeply. Oops. Then he spat it out, and my sister didn't believe it could be anything worth drinking. Oh well, at least we got one person.
(racetraitor has an alibi for, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:26, Reply)

Green Milk
You steal my milk in uni?

I use green food colouring to make it green

Milk is green - no-one drinks it, also everyone is too lazy to throw it out

Win!
( ogwen69 has returned from Reddit, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 19:02, Reply)

Not me but....
one thermometer's worth of mercury "accidentally" dropped into the burger-meat mincing machine at the Mcmanufacturers causes all sorts of 100% product recall hillarity, big sirens going off, vehicles full of delivery-time sensitive materials be quarrantined.... the perfect "I quit" goodbye pressie.
(bastardboy loves his mummeh, but hoo is daddeh?, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:28, Reply)

Um...
I have nowt.

Again.

All of the people in my life are generally pleasant and do not deserve such things, nor would I stoop to such levels.

However, I have a vaguely related notion for a convivial mockery opportunity. My significant other does a lovely line in chocolate-coated marzipan-wrapped cherries. I think a plate of these at a party would be nice, though plan to replace one of the cherries with a delicious brussels sprout. Russian roulette for the everyday fellow.
(ThomsonsPier consumes, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:58, 3 replies)

Oops
One recent (last 90 seconds maybe) social networking gaffe was the QOTW closing whilst I was still typing...

But here it is anyway...

Worried about who my 13yo daughter might be talking to, I installed a bit of software that monitored what she got up to.

I really ought to have use more care when configuring the report facility, as it spams my hotmail account every hour with reports in mht format which can be upto 4Mb.
However, all I get are screenshots of her playing Runescape, with nothing in the convo to be concerned about.

Then my eldest decides to install Sims, and I get a few megs of screenshots of that.

Then my other lad logs in, and up pops a snapshot of his MySpace friends page. About 40 friends, not loads, but he said he talks to no one that he hasn't met in real life.

The sad thing is, they're all lasses between 15 - 19 (he's 15).

Why was my childhood not filled with such wonders? When I think back, all the girls at my school were right hounds and any that weren't were already seeing someone else.

If only there was internet when I was still at school...

My social networking gaffe was being born 20 years too early.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:38, 1 reply)