We like our justice poetic.
Many years ago, when I took my first job out of college, I worked for a tiny consulting firm in Cambridge. The managing director was an Equine Rectum of a man, brimming over with self importance and snobbishness, who seemingly yearned for a time when he was at a rambling public school and was able to bully new boys with impunity.

After taking 6 weeks of his managerial effluent, I was at my wits end. Lets bear in mind I was quite well aware that as the new boy, I was going to have to perform some tea making duties, and a few menial tasks like distributing post, but I had to balk slightly when, on one snowy december afternoon he demanded I wash his car.

Picture the scene, dear reader, as I stand shivering in sub-zero temperatures, in a suit and tie, washing a 1989 Peugeot 405. By the end of it I was shivering profusely and barely able to feel my extremeties.

I was given coffee by the office secretary and allowed to sit next to the radiator. The thawing process was just beginning to take hold when one of the other directors walked into the room and asked "Did you put tyre dressing ALL over Peter's tyres or just on the wall?"

Apparently he had jumped into his car, sped out of the car park and completely failed to stop at the entrance, skidding out into the busy road and t-boning a rather irate neanderthal in his brand new BMW.

When I looked out of the window, Peter, usually so ebullient and confident, was desperately remonstrating with this simeon lifeform, which towered over him by a clear foot, and was dragging its knuckles along the floor.

He arrived back in the office sporting a very fetching black eye, in many rainbow shades.
(Vic Flange, Sat 19 Dec 2009, 13:20, Reply)