» Evil Pranks

The Great Booze-on-Desk Caper.
We have office drink-ups on Fridays. One of the more neurotic, uptight girls in the office left a note on her desk telling us not to leave any bottles on her desk.

Well, we had a lot of empties lying around.



She cried when she arrived on Monday. I got asked (the person was laughing while they asked) to apologise.
(Fri 14th Dec 2007, 14:03, More)

» I don't understand the attraction

Hair-Shirt Hamburgers
I'm posting this from my blog, since it fits the question. People go nuts about some expensive hamburger joint, but I find most of them inedible.
____________________________

It's interesting how the laws of form and function do not apply to gourmet food. Gourmet hamburgers, in their attempt to appear to be a kind of handheld cornucopia, are almost impossible to eat with your hands. So much produce spills out of them while you eat that you need a knife and fork to clear your plate. The worst part, however, is the near insistence on the use of hard, crusty rolls.

Crusty rolls are the product of a mentality that regards food as better the more physically punishing it is to consume. Hearty chunks of fibre stuck inextricably in your teeth, gums abraded near to bleeding by the carborundum crust, flour all over your face and clothes, and filling squeezed out the back due to the rigidity of the fucking thing. Texture is fine and dandy, but sandwich something soft between two crackers and see if it stays there when you bite into the little bellows you've just created. And it's nearly impossible to tear puffy wholewheat rolls apart without a grimacing, messy gymnastics routine.

Also, whoever gave trendy eateries the suggestion that it was a good idea to replace lettuce with rocket deserves a herbal enema administered with a fucking firehose, although I suspect they'd enjoy that. When the garmish overpowers the flavour of the patty and sauce, your hamburger has failed.
(Fri 16th Oct 2009, 7:03, More)

» PE Lessons

Touch Rugby
One of the many tortures devised to keep the lads fit was touch rugby during PE which saw the less fit chaps keeping a careful shuffle that saw them on the side of the field opposite to that of the ball. Either that or receive a "tap" from the silverbacks that had you sprawling in mud.

One particularly pathetic specimen, a widely despised little scholastic overachiever, somehow ended up with a wayward ball and decided to make a dash for the open tryline. A hulking brute came sprinting towards him, but the intrepid nerd sucessfully dummied the rugby player and scored a try.

The rugby player received a near endless amount of mocking from his fellow apes, and he took out the frustration on the hapless brain who'd humiliated him.

It escalated and escalated until one day, in class, Jock turned round to aim a quick slap at Nerd, whose nerves were frayed beyond reason at this point. After completing the slap, Jock put his hand triumphantly on the desk, where it was stabbed, full force, by Nerd's pencil.

The teacher, a sensitive homosexual man not blind to the dynamics of the situation, said to Jock as he was led whimpering to sickbay, "ja, that's what you get."
(Fri 20th Nov 2009, 13:30, More)

» Best Graffiti Ever

A provocateur friend of mine...
...with a wicked, wicked sense of humour, vandalised a local post-Apartheid mural depicting a utopian multi-cultural South Africa.

He changed the "Rights" in "Turning Human Wrongs Into Human Rights" to "Whites".

I honestly feel bad that I laughed as much as I did.
(Sat 5th May 2007, 21:30, More)

» PE Lessons

Swimming at age Six
At the ages of two and three, I had two very near drowning experiences that have kept me leery of swimming thirty years on.

My parents, in order to cure me of the terror, bought me a life jacket and held me screaming in our tiny backyard pool to get me over the phobia. It didn't really work.

Then came school. First, the terror of punishment by caning. Second, the terror of weekly swimming lessons in the world's coldest pool led by Mizz Aurik, a defected East German Olympic coach (I swear).

The sound of the sprinklers ticking an ominous countdown as we made our way across the fields.

The changing rooms made of those open bricks showing your tiny genitals to the world at large, a chill breeze blowing over a pool that only got sun half the day.

The Teutonic shriek: "get eeeen ze vater!"

The testicles retreating into the abdomen as your body hit the water.

The chlorine stinging your teary eyes as der Damenführer put her foot on your head to force you to breathe out underwater through your streaming nose while you practised kicking against the walls.

I was sick nearly every Thursday, as my mother just couldn't take the howling.

We had her for the first four years of school, and I was a near-permanent wreck. In my final year of junior school, I developed a fondness for simply floating on my back and kicking, as I'd plunge underwater if I swung my arms. I entered the school gala for the "backstroke" with the worst swimmers and naturally lost miserably, but the old battleaxe, bless her iron heart, came up and shook my hand, telling me how proud she was of me. Very touching.

I'm so fucking glad I'm not a child any more.
(Fri 20th Nov 2009, 12:59, More)