Profile for CaptainCuntyBollocks:
i am the god of hell fire and i bring you............. ice cream
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
[read all their answers]
- a member for 2 years, 3 months and 16 days
- has posted 0 messages on the main board
- has posted 3 messages on the talk board
- has posted 0 messages on the links board
- has posted 46 stories and 23 replies on question of the week
- They liked 0 pictures, 0 links, 0 talk posts, and 5 qotw answers.
- Ignore this user
- Add this user as a friend
- send me a message
i am the god of hell fire and i bring you............. ice cream
Recent front page messages:
none
Best answers to questions:
» Terrible Parenting
Freddy Krueger is real!!!!!
After reading a harrowing tale on here yesterday concerning that poltergeist film it brought back the most horrendous experience of my childhood and which gave me a sleepless night last night just thinking about it. Once again this concerns my childish, prankster, twat and all round cunt of a father. While being only the tender age of thirteen I was aloud to stay up late one night to watch Friday night TV. My parents were going through a period of not talking to each other at the time and so my mum had fucked off to bed early and my dad was working in his shed. So channel 4 it was then.....
Remember how good Friday night TV was on channel 4 back in the 90's, eurotrash, who's line is it anyway, roseanne and not forgetting the obligatory French grot/art film. I digress. Nightmare on elm street was on that night and I decided that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about concerning this film. Playground gossip had put it in high stead. So there I was kicking back in the recliner chair (dad's chair) with my coke and crisps and the lights off (btw i hate the dark now). The film was pretty unimpressive for the first hour or so but this lead me into a false sense of security. During this period of relaxed viewing my father was busy in the shed working but little to my knowledge he was making a Freddy Krueger glove and plotting my demise.
At this point I must point out that I was fully kicked back in the recliner chair to the point I was nearly horizontal. Then the scene where Johnny depp was in his room watching TV on his bed came on, we all know the one. Just before the penultimate moment in the scene where Freddie's hand cuts through the bed and drags poor Johnny down my cuntish father had slipped into the room with the stealthy skills of an SAS soilder and creped behind the chair. I was unaware at the time that it was possible to get your hand through the chair from behind. I think you know whats coming next and the absolute cunt timed it to perfection.
As soon as Freddie's hand came through so did my dads. I jumped up higher than a kangeroo on a pogo stick, wetting myself with fear ( probably due to 2 litres of coke in my bladder) and run up the stairs to the sanctity of my mum while screaming like a girl. My mum came running down the stairs to find my father sitting in the recliner chair, laughing his arse off and grinning like a maniac while wearing the Freddy glove he had made. This is real cuntish bit though..... expecting my mother who was already annoyed with him to lay into him, she then started pissing herself with laughter too. Remember I was soaking wet with piss and looking like a frightened cat. A night I will never forget and brought many a sleepless night my way for years to come.
There's a moral to this tale but i really can' be arsed to find it.
Lenght... Just ask your mum!!!!
(Fri 17th Aug 2007, 9:38, More)
Freddy Krueger is real!!!!!
After reading a harrowing tale on here yesterday concerning that poltergeist film it brought back the most horrendous experience of my childhood and which gave me a sleepless night last night just thinking about it. Once again this concerns my childish, prankster, twat and all round cunt of a father. While being only the tender age of thirteen I was aloud to stay up late one night to watch Friday night TV. My parents were going through a period of not talking to each other at the time and so my mum had fucked off to bed early and my dad was working in his shed. So channel 4 it was then.....
Remember how good Friday night TV was on channel 4 back in the 90's, eurotrash, who's line is it anyway, roseanne and not forgetting the obligatory French grot/art film. I digress. Nightmare on elm street was on that night and I decided that I wanted to see what all the fuss was about concerning this film. Playground gossip had put it in high stead. So there I was kicking back in the recliner chair (dad's chair) with my coke and crisps and the lights off (btw i hate the dark now). The film was pretty unimpressive for the first hour or so but this lead me into a false sense of security. During this period of relaxed viewing my father was busy in the shed working but little to my knowledge he was making a Freddy Krueger glove and plotting my demise.
At this point I must point out that I was fully kicked back in the recliner chair to the point I was nearly horizontal. Then the scene where Johnny depp was in his room watching TV on his bed came on, we all know the one. Just before the penultimate moment in the scene where Freddie's hand cuts through the bed and drags poor Johnny down my cuntish father had slipped into the room with the stealthy skills of an SAS soilder and creped behind the chair. I was unaware at the time that it was possible to get your hand through the chair from behind. I think you know whats coming next and the absolute cunt timed it to perfection.
As soon as Freddie's hand came through so did my dads. I jumped up higher than a kangeroo on a pogo stick, wetting myself with fear ( probably due to 2 litres of coke in my bladder) and run up the stairs to the sanctity of my mum while screaming like a girl. My mum came running down the stairs to find my father sitting in the recliner chair, laughing his arse off and grinning like a maniac while wearing the Freddy glove he had made. This is real cuntish bit though..... expecting my mother who was already annoyed with him to lay into him, she then started pissing herself with laughter too. Remember I was soaking wet with piss and looking like a frightened cat. A night I will never forget and brought many a sleepless night my way for years to come.
There's a moral to this tale but i really can' be arsed to find it.
Lenght... Just ask your mum!!!!
(Fri 17th Aug 2007, 9:38, More)
» The most childish thing you've done as an adult
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
adjective
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.
This is wrong of course. What it should read is:
Childish:
Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.
If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.
This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.
You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.
As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.
I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.
My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.
Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.
Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.
“Me gut’s feel a bit off”
After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.
A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me
“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”
Mum followed with.
“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”
Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.
Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.
“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”
The teacher continues with,
“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”
Me,
“Out about what?”
Teacher,
“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”
Me.
“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”
HA HA, FUCKING HA
Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?
In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.
Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 13:35, More)
You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
adjective
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.
This is wrong of course. What it should read is:
Childish:
Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.
If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.
This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.
You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.
As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.
I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.
My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.
Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.
Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.
“Me gut’s feel a bit off”
After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.
A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me
“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”
Mum followed with.
“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”
Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.
Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.
“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”
The teacher continues with,
“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”
Me,
“Out about what?”
Teacher,
“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”
Me.
“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”
HA HA, FUCKING HA
Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?
In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.
Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 13:35, More)
» Call Centres
GREEDY FARMERS
Because I was obviously a paedophile in a previous life and my magnum opus had been the rape of every virgin boy and girl in all of Christendom, I have worked in customer service jobs most of my adult life. My last outing in the employment sector was working as a drone for the government. This was a particular executive subsidiary to DEFRA in deep and darkest Devon that shall remain nameless (this is because I was known as a cunt at this establishment. Two and two might equal a break of the official secrets act and then captaincuntybollocks becomes and personal keyhole, if cocks were keys that is).
Anywho, I would deal with a vast number of farmers (agricultural agents was the politically correct term we were forced to use, at gunpoint) wondering why they have not paid there (OBSCENLY FUCKING HUGE) government subsidies. Call after call, the usual tsunami of peasants and landed gentry calling me a right wing wanker who does not understand there issues, I miss that sometimes (insert blurry lines). The Farmers I represented saw me as scum and not fit enough to be shit on the devils hairy hoof, the feeling was mutually reciprocated. As with many of the posts so far it is obvious that callers/customers do not realise the powers of phone monkey, and goodness me, I had some serious power to fuck up businesses and lives.
AND I DID MUHAHAHAHAHMUHAHAHAHA
Around the time I had decided to quit and fuck off to the other side of the world, my team leader asked me to clear my correspondences from these inbread/illiterate agricultural armadillo’s, the usual crap, you leave and make sure you leave your mess in some sort of order. While rummaging through endless shite the phone rings, something to ease the boredom me thinks, the conversation goes as follows:
Me: Hello, Certain Govertment Executive Agency, Captaincuntybollocks speaking. How can I help?
Farmer: You can start by fucking paying me my (YES DEAR READER, HE SAID MY!!) money.
Me: Can I ask you sir that you do not use any more abusive language as I will disconnect you if you should do so again. Now Sir, can you give me your details.
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH and the conversation continues.
Now from the opening gambit this customer was never going to get my fullest of attention or sympathy and he went onto cry poverty and demanded he was paid in full immediately as his farmer friend (and possible lover/brother/uncle) had already been paid. Therefore, I agreed to look into his claim and call him back at the next opportunity. Being my last week, the lazy part of my brain was telling me to jack it off to the next unlucky former paedophile that should take my place. However, something got up my nose about him and I decided to use all my investigative powers to access the delayed payment.
Therefore, as I donned dear stalker, refilled my pipe, and slipped on my velvet jacket I started looking through three years worth of claims, payments, correspondence and forms from this prick. Believe me when I say this, I had no idea what I was looking for I just wanted to ruin his day somehow and then I struck gold, and by gold I mean beaurocrtaic wizardry. The payment scheme had been running for three years and it was about as organised as narcoleptics darts match. So each year the scheme rules changed ever so slightly to accommodate the needs of the EU and worldwide agricultural issues. Failure to adhere to these rules will, as Arnie might put it in some dodgy pro American eighties action flick while chomping on one of Cuba’s finest, fuck you up. Our friend had fucked up.
The previous year our client was informed by letter, as were all customers, that they had to set aside a small percentage of land and not claim, grow or use any of that set aside land. Why? Fuck Knows. Well, this greedy so and so claimed on all his land and not set aside anything. Joy of fucking joys. Not only would I deliberately put his claim to the back of the que but I could deploy many penalties for being a greedy illiterate bastard.
Our next phone conversation goes something like this:
Me: Hello is that Mr (Greedy cunt) farmer.
Farmer: Yes
Me: This is captaincuntybollocks from that government agency I’m not allowed to mention returning your call.
Farmer: About time
Me: Well I’m afraid it’s not good news Mr farmer. I looked through three years of your claims and it turns out you have tried to claim land that should be set aside. As with all scheme rule changes you were informed by post on (insert date) and then again in your new handbook. You were made aware of the penalties for failing to adhere to these rule changes in your handbook and it is with a heavy heart (bollocks) that I have to apply a 20% reduction to your payments for this year.
BACK OF THE FUCKING NET!!!!!!!
Now I should point that like most call centres our conversations are recorded and it was the unfortunate farmer who fell foul to this as he started to splutter some shite about living on the breadline and etc…. (Note: He was getting over a hundred grand a year in subsidies!). Then a strange calm descended on his voice, almost a post cum calmness, and he tried to offer me a bribe to the tune of 200 quid to forget all about this and process his claim immediately. I informed him that this was not possible and went onto fill him with a pack of lies that his claim will be processed asap. Now, some people would have left it at that and forgot all about the bribe but not me. I had taken too much shite over the previous year from the over paid cunt’s to let this potential satisfying moment pass me by. So I duly informed my line manager about the bribe and gave a written to statement to the effect.
As I was leaving the next week my line manager came and told me that the farmer had lost nearly everything that year due to his little stupid act. There is a moral to this tale and it is politeness. If he was polite, in the first place, I might have overlooked his administration fuck up and just overridden the delay in the payment, but his attitude and the last act of a desperate man, bribery, were his downfall.
Length: About three days of Sherlock esq pipe smoking and investigation.
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 22:22, More)
GREEDY FARMERS
Because I was obviously a paedophile in a previous life and my magnum opus had been the rape of every virgin boy and girl in all of Christendom, I have worked in customer service jobs most of my adult life. My last outing in the employment sector was working as a drone for the government. This was a particular executive subsidiary to DEFRA in deep and darkest Devon that shall remain nameless (this is because I was known as a cunt at this establishment. Two and two might equal a break of the official secrets act and then captaincuntybollocks becomes and personal keyhole, if cocks were keys that is).
Anywho, I would deal with a vast number of farmers (agricultural agents was the politically correct term we were forced to use, at gunpoint) wondering why they have not paid there (OBSCENLY FUCKING HUGE) government subsidies. Call after call, the usual tsunami of peasants and landed gentry calling me a right wing wanker who does not understand there issues, I miss that sometimes (insert blurry lines). The Farmers I represented saw me as scum and not fit enough to be shit on the devils hairy hoof, the feeling was mutually reciprocated. As with many of the posts so far it is obvious that callers/customers do not realise the powers of phone monkey, and goodness me, I had some serious power to fuck up businesses and lives.
AND I DID MUHAHAHAHAHMUHAHAHAHA
Around the time I had decided to quit and fuck off to the other side of the world, my team leader asked me to clear my correspondences from these inbread/illiterate agricultural armadillo’s, the usual crap, you leave and make sure you leave your mess in some sort of order. While rummaging through endless shite the phone rings, something to ease the boredom me thinks, the conversation goes as follows:
Me: Hello, Certain Govertment Executive Agency, Captaincuntybollocks speaking. How can I help?
Farmer: You can start by fucking paying me my (YES DEAR READER, HE SAID MY!!) money.
Me: Can I ask you sir that you do not use any more abusive language as I will disconnect you if you should do so again. Now Sir, can you give me your details.
BLAH, BLAH, BLAH and the conversation continues.
Now from the opening gambit this customer was never going to get my fullest of attention or sympathy and he went onto cry poverty and demanded he was paid in full immediately as his farmer friend (and possible lover/brother/uncle) had already been paid. Therefore, I agreed to look into his claim and call him back at the next opportunity. Being my last week, the lazy part of my brain was telling me to jack it off to the next unlucky former paedophile that should take my place. However, something got up my nose about him and I decided to use all my investigative powers to access the delayed payment.
Therefore, as I donned dear stalker, refilled my pipe, and slipped on my velvet jacket I started looking through three years worth of claims, payments, correspondence and forms from this prick. Believe me when I say this, I had no idea what I was looking for I just wanted to ruin his day somehow and then I struck gold, and by gold I mean beaurocrtaic wizardry. The payment scheme had been running for three years and it was about as organised as narcoleptics darts match. So each year the scheme rules changed ever so slightly to accommodate the needs of the EU and worldwide agricultural issues. Failure to adhere to these rules will, as Arnie might put it in some dodgy pro American eighties action flick while chomping on one of Cuba’s finest, fuck you up. Our friend had fucked up.
The previous year our client was informed by letter, as were all customers, that they had to set aside a small percentage of land and not claim, grow or use any of that set aside land. Why? Fuck Knows. Well, this greedy so and so claimed on all his land and not set aside anything. Joy of fucking joys. Not only would I deliberately put his claim to the back of the que but I could deploy many penalties for being a greedy illiterate bastard.
Our next phone conversation goes something like this:
Me: Hello is that Mr (Greedy cunt) farmer.
Farmer: Yes
Me: This is captaincuntybollocks from that government agency I’m not allowed to mention returning your call.
Farmer: About time
Me: Well I’m afraid it’s not good news Mr farmer. I looked through three years of your claims and it turns out you have tried to claim land that should be set aside. As with all scheme rule changes you were informed by post on (insert date) and then again in your new handbook. You were made aware of the penalties for failing to adhere to these rule changes in your handbook and it is with a heavy heart (bollocks) that I have to apply a 20% reduction to your payments for this year.
BACK OF THE FUCKING NET!!!!!!!
Now I should point that like most call centres our conversations are recorded and it was the unfortunate farmer who fell foul to this as he started to splutter some shite about living on the breadline and etc…. (Note: He was getting over a hundred grand a year in subsidies!). Then a strange calm descended on his voice, almost a post cum calmness, and he tried to offer me a bribe to the tune of 200 quid to forget all about this and process his claim immediately. I informed him that this was not possible and went onto fill him with a pack of lies that his claim will be processed asap. Now, some people would have left it at that and forgot all about the bribe but not me. I had taken too much shite over the previous year from the over paid cunt’s to let this potential satisfying moment pass me by. So I duly informed my line manager about the bribe and gave a written to statement to the effect.
As I was leaving the next week my line manager came and told me that the farmer had lost nearly everything that year due to his little stupid act. There is a moral to this tale and it is politeness. If he was polite, in the first place, I might have overlooked his administration fuck up and just overridden the delay in the payment, but his attitude and the last act of a desperate man, bribery, were his downfall.
Length: About three days of Sherlock esq pipe smoking and investigation.
(Fri 4th Sep 2009, 22:22, More)
» Terrible Parenting
Catapolt + ballbearing + over enthusiastic father = disaster
Having read and posted a few on this question I am quite happy my childhood was pretty much stress free and I want to cheer you all up with another tale of fathers inability to act like a grown up father.
My father would always know how to spice things up in the long summer holidays. My father is a creative genius when it comes to DIY, you name it the fucker can make it. I told my mum I wanted a catapult for my 14th birthday. She told me to promptly "get stuffed", she knew me too well. I got a game boy game instead I think but later in the day my dad called into his shed for my present from him (insert peado joke here).
He had built me a catapult that would not be out of place in military use. It fucking enormous and was so powerful he built a strap that connected to my arm so it would fire further. Not only that, he gave 500 or so marble size ball bearings to shoot with. The summer starts here....... or so I thought!
We waited for my mum to go out cause she have would have gone mad at him for building me one, once she left we went in the garden for some fun. We set up loads of bottle on wall and proceeded to blow the shit out of them for hours... good times
When my dad took a turn he was interrupted mid shot by my outraged mother shouting "WTF do you think your doing", miscues his shot, pings off the mental pole that kept the washing line up and the ball bearing went straight through the newly double glazed patio door and thus causing a comedic smash that would not be out of place in a Tom and Jerry cartoon....Bad times
My mother lost her rag completely and screamed at my dad about setting and example to his son but god bless him this was his next line:
"I made it for me, the boys been watching me use it all afternoon. He wanted ago but I said it was to dangerous and I just proved I was right"
Got me out of the shit and landed him deeper init. Taught me how to lie convincingly to women (insert cock gag here) and never snitch on anyone, especially your mates.
Ladies, Gentleman and fellow B3tans I give you the legend, accident prone, comedic, cigar smoking, minor alcoholic, womanising, all round good egg of my father.
BTW* I dread how he might one day twist the brains of my unborn child.
(Wed 22nd Aug 2007, 11:53, More)
Catapolt + ballbearing + over enthusiastic father = disaster
Having read and posted a few on this question I am quite happy my childhood was pretty much stress free and I want to cheer you all up with another tale of fathers inability to act like a grown up father.
My father would always know how to spice things up in the long summer holidays. My father is a creative genius when it comes to DIY, you name it the fucker can make it. I told my mum I wanted a catapult for my 14th birthday. She told me to promptly "get stuffed", she knew me too well. I got a game boy game instead I think but later in the day my dad called into his shed for my present from him (insert peado joke here).
He had built me a catapult that would not be out of place in military use. It fucking enormous and was so powerful he built a strap that connected to my arm so it would fire further. Not only that, he gave 500 or so marble size ball bearings to shoot with. The summer starts here....... or so I thought!
We waited for my mum to go out cause she have would have gone mad at him for building me one, once she left we went in the garden for some fun. We set up loads of bottle on wall and proceeded to blow the shit out of them for hours... good times
When my dad took a turn he was interrupted mid shot by my outraged mother shouting "WTF do you think your doing", miscues his shot, pings off the mental pole that kept the washing line up and the ball bearing went straight through the newly double glazed patio door and thus causing a comedic smash that would not be out of place in a Tom and Jerry cartoon....Bad times
My mother lost her rag completely and screamed at my dad about setting and example to his son but god bless him this was his next line:
"I made it for me, the boys been watching me use it all afternoon. He wanted ago but I said it was to dangerous and I just proved I was right"
Got me out of the shit and landed him deeper init. Taught me how to lie convincingly to women (insert cock gag here) and never snitch on anyone, especially your mates.
Ladies, Gentleman and fellow B3tans I give you the legend, accident prone, comedic, cigar smoking, minor alcoholic, womanising, all round good egg of my father.
BTW* I dread how he might one day twist the brains of my unborn child.
(Wed 22nd Aug 2007, 11:53, More)
» Terrible Parenting
Fathers Revenge
First let me explain that my father and his brothers are petty vengeful cunts of the highest order. When I was 16 my mother made me work my dad and my uncles on the building sites. I was basically the tea boy and sweeper, much to the hilarity of my dad and his brothers. But just above me in the building site pecking order was this guy called 'shit mouth Dave'. Now Dave was none too bright and looked a bit like chunk from the Goonies. It was obvious Dave been the butt of many a joke and prank from the brothers but he had decided to get revenge. This was his first mistake!
We were building an extension on a sandwich shop one week and we were all constantly bombarded with free sandwiches all the time, bonza i hear you cry, not exactly!
Dave had terrible teeth and breathe, it looked and smelt like he was eating turds for breakfast. Hence the nickname 'shit mouth dave'. It turns out he had some very odd mouth disorder that he caught in Thailand!!!!!
Well anyway, unknown to all of us while dave was being very helpful and picking up the sandwiches for all of us everyday he was also licking and spitting in them. A few days roll on and my uncle jim starts getting these fucked up ulcers in his mouth and a few days later were all fucked in the mouth apart from Dave. After some careful detective work and the doctor asking us had we recently been to a foreign land licking out the bum holes of ladyboys (we assumed that’s what he meant) we sussed dave was fucking with us. Revenge was afoot.
Dave loved his shitty and loud Nova SRi (yes he was a chav too) and my dad knew this was his Achilles heel. One afternoon the brothers sent dave off across town in the work van to pick some shit from the hardware store that they didn't need. knowing he'd be gone for hours cause he was a lazy slackin cunt they set about revenge.
One by one my dad and his brothers took steaming huge dumps in a plastic bag. Jesus i felt sick. Then they opened up the radiator on daves car and threw it in there.
Remember this was the summer 98 and it was really fucking hot. Dave would drive to work every day and ask people if they could smell something weird in his car, we all replied 'no' of course. The smell was really fucking bad and i still retch now thinking about it. For three weeks he drove round with shit in his car but dave had to have his car stripped down in the end, which cost a fortune.
I love my Father
Cherry popped-first post
Length- I have to take a run up lubed with Castrol GTX to get it in.
(Thu 16th Aug 2007, 11:55, More)
Fathers Revenge
First let me explain that my father and his brothers are petty vengeful cunts of the highest order. When I was 16 my mother made me work my dad and my uncles on the building sites. I was basically the tea boy and sweeper, much to the hilarity of my dad and his brothers. But just above me in the building site pecking order was this guy called 'shit mouth Dave'. Now Dave was none too bright and looked a bit like chunk from the Goonies. It was obvious Dave been the butt of many a joke and prank from the brothers but he had decided to get revenge. This was his first mistake!
We were building an extension on a sandwich shop one week and we were all constantly bombarded with free sandwiches all the time, bonza i hear you cry, not exactly!
Dave had terrible teeth and breathe, it looked and smelt like he was eating turds for breakfast. Hence the nickname 'shit mouth dave'. It turns out he had some very odd mouth disorder that he caught in Thailand!!!!!
Well anyway, unknown to all of us while dave was being very helpful and picking up the sandwiches for all of us everyday he was also licking and spitting in them. A few days roll on and my uncle jim starts getting these fucked up ulcers in his mouth and a few days later were all fucked in the mouth apart from Dave. After some careful detective work and the doctor asking us had we recently been to a foreign land licking out the bum holes of ladyboys (we assumed that’s what he meant) we sussed dave was fucking with us. Revenge was afoot.
Dave loved his shitty and loud Nova SRi (yes he was a chav too) and my dad knew this was his Achilles heel. One afternoon the brothers sent dave off across town in the work van to pick some shit from the hardware store that they didn't need. knowing he'd be gone for hours cause he was a lazy slackin cunt they set about revenge.
One by one my dad and his brothers took steaming huge dumps in a plastic bag. Jesus i felt sick. Then they opened up the radiator on daves car and threw it in there.
Remember this was the summer 98 and it was really fucking hot. Dave would drive to work every day and ask people if they could smell something weird in his car, we all replied 'no' of course. The smell was really fucking bad and i still retch now thinking about it. For three weeks he drove round with shit in his car but dave had to have his car stripped down in the end, which cost a fortune.
I love my Father
Cherry popped-first post
Length- I have to take a run up lubed with Castrol GTX to get it in.
(Thu 16th Aug 2007, 11:55, More)