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Profile for Spaff_Quaffer:
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Hello.

My name is Spaff_Quaffer. I realise now that the name may imply that I am a pillow biter, but I'm not I'm afraid. I'm just an un-interesting hetrosexual. I've tried to fancy blokes, but they don't have minges or tits, and they are a big draw for me.

So just to clear it up: I like my keyboard.

It's one of those clikity-claky ones that make you feel lke you are typing on an old typewriter. I get through about 23 monitors a year because I sometimes forget that I am not typing on an old typewiter, and swipe the bastard onto the floor expecting a 'DING!'

Fucking bastard keyboard, I hate it. Fucking clickity clacking bastard that it is. My fingers hurt and everything.

Nah just kidding keyboard, I think your ace. Yes, you too mouse. Come here you guys. Lets go for an ice cream.

You want a 'Funky Feet' Mouse? 'FAB' for you keyboard? Right you are.

*Rustle rustle*

Here you are chaps, eat up.

Quick go on the trampoline whle they have thier ice creams. You make me feel like dancing, I'm gonna dance the night away.

That was nice, now back to the computer to get my wife an anniversary present. Thank jizzing monkey tits for private browsing.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

YOU BASTARDS ARE ALL STICKY! Oh FUCK the mess I'm making! Dribbly pissing ice cream everywhere! Funky feet are fucking rare as well you tit mouse.

Keys Beginning to stickkkk dooooooownn

mmmmmmmmmmmmmouse ffffailing

caaaaaaaaant cclickk save chhanggges.

BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASTARRRRRRRRD!!!!!

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Best answers to questions:

» "You're doing it wrong"

Worked for a kitchen fitter.
I was young.

I was tasked with cutting out the hole for the sink. I marked the hole out on the worktop and then took to it with a jigsaw.

Yes, you guessed it. A perfect sink sized piece of worktop is what I was left with, the rest of the worktop cut to fucking bits to get to the sink sized piece.

Boy was my face red.

Because he punched me.
(Thu 15th Jul 2010, 15:42, More)

» The most childish thing you've done as an adult

Pranky Mc Pranks.
Back when I was a teacher, I engaged in many acts of japery and indeed hijinks.

One particular lad called Frankie was a troubled little fellow, and I took him under my wing. His mother was a waitress in a cocktail bar. His father left home at an early age because his mother didn't want him anymore, so he had no father figure, or floating shelf in his life.

I saw him being bullied as usual one day by 'Tucker' Jenkins, a loud mouthed little cunt who had been transferred to the school only recently after being expelled from his last school for throwing a sauasage on a fork at another pupil.

"Oi, Frankie you dirty pikey!" He yelled at Frankie "Nobody hides from the Wolf" With that Tucker brandished his signed framed photograph of 'Wolf' from Gladiators which was hanging round his neck, thrust it at Frankie, and then threw no less than 13 cocktail sausages on plastic forks at the poor lad from a cool box he was carrying.

Well, I felt sorry for the lad, but couldn't intervene. The government was stopping any form of discipline enforcement, and I was on my tea break and had a marmalade sandwich to look forward to. Oh how I loved my marmalade sandwiches. I would eat them like Paddington Bear - stop animation style with my nose and mouth moving up and down in rapid movements.

Anyway, I came up with a scheme to get Tucker Jenkins back, and make Frankie feel like a hero. All this was achieved using childish pranks.

I visited the joke shop that night and spent a small fortune. I also stopped at the Supermarket to get a bottle of wine and some flowers for the missus. Then I ran all the way to Frankie's house. I knocked on the door and Frankie's mum answered. I was panting from running, and carrying my haul from the joke shop and my flowers and wine.

"Can I see Frankie?" I asked his mum.

"Of course Mr Quaffer, he has just got out of the bath and should be in his room.

"Excellent" I said, rubbed my hands, adjusted my ballbag (which had become tangled from running) and made my way to the young boy's room with my stuff.

There we plotted the fiendish plot to end all fiendish plots. A plot that would see the downfall of Tucker Fucking Jenkins, the cunt that he was.

The next day, the plan went into action. Frankie made sure he was hanging around the gate when Tucker walked in. I was hiding behind a bush.

Tucker came round the corner, spotted Frankie, and the abuse began.

"Ha! It's Frankie. Your kettle is out of date and smells of stale water you fucking shitcunt!" He yelled at Frankie.

I have to concede that Tucker was spot on here. When I was round Frankie's house, I noticed that the kettle was a Morphy Richards model, beige in colour, circa 1974. Wasn’t even cordless. I mean, you can see why the poor lad was targeted by bullies.

Frankie sighed and slowly walked up to Tucker Jenkins, and squared up to his face. A small crowd gathered.

"What are YOU going to do Frankie? You wear Gola trainers, and you use own brand Ibubrofen when you have a headache."

It was then he noticed Frankie's flower on his lapel.

"Hey, that’s quite a nice flower that, Frankie. Mind if I have a sniff?"

"Go right ahead, Tucker" Said Frankie with a snigger.

Tucker leant forward, and BAM! water all in his fucking face!

"Glub glub... You utter fucking bastard!" Shouted Tucker.

"WHOOP WHOOP!" Shouted Frankie, farted and ran off to class, leaving a small crowd of slightly amused people, and a slightly wet and embarrassed Tucker Jenkins in his wake.

Later on in class, Frankie was sat in his usual place, when Tucker walked in. I was hiding behind a bush.

"I'll get you after school Frankie" Said Tucker, all sinister like, and showed Frankie his inside pocket, which housed an Asda 'Taste the Difference' Lincolnshire sausage with a Stirling silver fork stuck into it.

Although frightened, Frankie continued with the plan.

"Come sit down here Tucker, I've cleaned this chair for you" he said.

"Hey, that chair is quite clean compared to the other chairs, ok."

Quick as a flash, Frankie slipped the whoopee cushion onto the seat as Tucker sat down.

“PPRRAAAAARRRPPP!!!”

“Eurgh, you dirty beast!” Said Frankie on cue, and the whole class turned around to a red faced Tucker Jenkins under suspicion of dropping his guts. All the other kids were mildly amused.

Frankie adopted a Blakey impression, shook his fist and shouted “I’ll ‘ave you Frankieeeee!”

“SHNEEB! SHNEEB!” Frankie shouted back, spun around, and did a Michael Jackson tip-toes-bended-knees-hand-on-hat pose before shooting gun fingers at Tucker and moonwalking out the door.

At lunchtime, Frankie watched tucker as he went into the boy’s toilets, and he followed him in. I was hiding behind a bush.

He waited for Tucker to finish having a piss, and approached him as he went to the sinks.

“Frankie you cunt, get the fuck out of here before you get this in your fucking eye.” From his pocket Tucker pulled out a barbecue fork with a cumberland ring on the end of it.

“Cool your jets Tucker” said Frankie, cool as a cucumber. “I just thought you might like a stick of chewing gum”

“Ooh sounds good, I could do with a breath freshn… Hey, wait a minute… That looks like an awfully cheap pack of chewing gum, and I thought they stopped making Doublemint years ago, and its your last one… Are you sure I can have it?”

“Of course, my old adversary”

Tucker took the gum, and SNAP! Hidden trap device straight onto the index finger! All the boys who saw it go down tittered slightly.

“Gah! You wanker! I’ll get you for this you see if I don’t!” Yelled Tucker as he flailed around the bathroom.

“BUCKEROO! BUCKEROO!” Yelled Frankie, and he clicked his heels, licked his finger and drew a ‘3’ in the air, before licking his other finger and pressing it against his buttock and making a ‘hisssssssss’ noise. Then he ran out.

All was going well, and the final and most genius part of the plan was about to come to fruition.

At the end of the school day, Frankie followed Tucker into Patel’s newsagent, where Tucker would buy a 10p mix up almost every day. I was hiding behind a bush.

“Hi Tucker, sorry about today. I’m just so fed up with you bullying me, that I thought you needed some just desserts” Said Frankie

Tucker looked him up and down, and slowly nodded. “Well, I suppose I deserved it. No harm done” Said Tucker.

This was unexpected. I tugged on Frankie’s shirt from behind the bush, and despite Mr Patels apparent confusion at the sight of a talking bush, I let Frankie have it straight.

“Frankie, we’ve come too far to back down now” I said

“But he has apologised, I’m ready to accept it” Replied Frankie.

“But Frankie. Your Mum’s kettle,” I said.

Frankie frowned, cleared his throat, and offered Tucker some nuts from the tub he had in his pocket.

“Want some nuts?” Frankie asked softly

“What’s wrong with them?” Asked Tucker.

Frankie looked down, sighed, looked at me from behind the bush. I hurriedly wrote ‘Kettle’ on a packet of custard creams in magic marker (Mr Patel’s stock displaying skills left a lot to be desired) and showed it to him.

Frankie read it. Looked back at Tucker and said “Nothing.”

“That’s good, I could really go for some nuts right now” Said Tucker as he unscrewed the lid.

BAM! Spring snakes, about half a dozen of them all over the fucking place

“BUARRGGGGH! HUAGRRRRRRGGH!!!” Tucker yelled as he knocked over a display of really fucking cheap wrapping paper.
“I thought we were sorted now you fiend!” Yelled tucker.

There was no display of triumph from Frankie this time. A single tear rolled down his face.

“You pushed me to this. YOU FUCKING PUSHED ME TO THIS!” Frankie yelled as he reached into a Mary Poppin’s style bag. He pulled out a giant novelty custom made sausage from the local butcher on a pitchfork.

He threw it with great force at Frankie.

The sausage on a pitchfork hit him in the face, and both prongs from the pitchfork went into his eyes. He fell backwards into the display cabinet of woefully shite, paper thin birthday cards and lay there. Dead. Bleeding. A ‘Sorry you’re leaving!’ card aptly perched on his shoulder.

Tucker Jenkins looked at Frankie’s body and cried. “£59.99 including VAT that sausage cost me” He said. He bought a can of Lilt from Mr Patel, cracked it open, raised it at Frankie, and drank from it.

And with that he walked off.

In hindsight, I think the pranks got out of hand, and it was no surprise that I was struck off soon after.
(Mon 21st Sep 2009, 16:58, More)

» Killed to DEATH

Pigeon Torture
One day I was driving home early from work, and I get a phone call. It was my wife.

She was absolutely distraught and was sobbing down the phone at me, and I couldn't understand a word she was saying. I pulled over and thought "Oh shit, who's dead?" Tried to get her to calm down, and finally after about 5 minutes she began to tell me, through racking sobs what had happened.

Turns out the cat hat brought in a big pigeon through the cat flap. Problem was, that the cat hadn't done enough to slot the bastard and it was screeching and honking it's head off and half flapping around the room. My missus, obviously concerned about the pigeon's welfare elected to put the flapping blood soaked wobble headed twat out of it's misery.

My missus, however, had never had to do such a thing, and she didn't know the best way to do it. Luckily, something in her head told her to put on a pair of rubber gloves, pick the bluntest knife out of the drawer, and attempt to saw it's head off.

She chased the cat away, managed to grab the pigeon, and proceeded to go at it like 'Handy Andy' with a bit of MDF and a handsaw.

Once the blunt knife met with the winged rat's head, the bloody thing went mental as if to say "What the FUCK are you doing woman?!" and made my missus recoil for long enough for the pigeon to think "Fuck this off, HELP! Somebody!!" So there is my missus chasing a fucked pigeon round the kitchen trying to pin it down and cut it's squarking head off, all the while feathers are flying everywhere, as if Starsky and Hutch, Smokey and the Bandit, and the A-Team had just driven through stacked boxes of chickens during a rally.

Eventually she got it down and did the deed after a long struggle, and a long drawn out session of decapitation, the pigeon finally brown bread and lifeless on the kitchen floor. She then took it outside, crying, and lobbed it into the field behind.

She then spent the next hour cleaning the blood and feather murder scene in the kitchen whilst sobbing her heart out.

The cat looked on, emotionless, eyeing up the tin of Kit-E-Kat on the sideboard.

While she was telling me all this, I was doing that thing where you laugh silently on the other end of the phone, tears rolling down my face, and trying to keep it together to make the occasional "mmm" noise and tutting. After I told her she should have just picked it up and twatted it's head hard against the wall, she really started wailing and asked "Do you think I made it suffer?"

I burst out laughing, and when I got home, a cold shoulder was forthcoming, and there was no sex to be had.
(Fri 23rd Dec 2011, 8:17, More)

» Call Centres

I used to work in a call centre,
phoning the great British public to see if they were interested in the goods my company sold. A lot like Yo Sushi, a conveyor belt ran through the office, where a variety of products were placed, and they would slowly go past you. Oh we had everything in stock, from leather walking stick covers, and bottles of tea tree oil, to tins of Stagg Chilli and tubs of stickle bricks.

We were each given a phonebook, and when you had dialled a number at random, the product going past your face as you pressed the last digit was the item you tried to sell.

“Rhubarb Rhubarb” you would have to say once you heard a dialling tone.

When the customer answered, the flaps on the small hole on the base of your chair opened and slowly a metal spike worked its way up. At around 10 seconds you could feel the cold sharp metal probing at the fabric of your Bermuda shorts. If you had not closed a sale within a minute, the spike would have inserted the full length of its sharp glistening metal love length into your rusty sheriff’s badge, and then it would withdraw slowly. Then a buzzer would go off, and a Vietnamese supervisor would come over, throw you a towel, and slap you in the face once shouting “MOW!”

Now I’m not much of a salesman, but there is nothing like the motivation gained when you have a metal spike trying to find a way into your rectum, a Vietnamese man slapping you shouting “MOW!” and, if you failed to get a sale for the entire shift, you had the indignity of wearing the ‘fish hat’ the next day. The fish hat was merely a fish draped over the head. Not much fun when you have to lower your head to read phone numbers – it always fell off. Plus there was always a supervisor on hand to grass you up if your fish hat fell off.

“Fish hat fall off error” He would say into a radio, and within minutes one of the Vietnamese supervisors would be over, and he would place it back on your head whilst quoting from the film ‘Airplane’ presumably to try to make you laugh and perform another fish hat fall off error. If that didn’t work, he always had a red nose and a car horn in his pocket. Everyone knows that nobody can fail to raise a smile at the parp of a car horn, Then when the eyes turn to the source of the sound, and there is a small Asian fellow with a red nose striking a ‘Tadaaaaa!’ pose, well that’s it, your laughing your arse off.

A second fish hat fall off error would incur a loss of a day’s pay, and if you had children, if you ever bought them an ice cream, a ninja would appear from nowhere and slap it out of their hand. You never knew when it was coming, but somewhere along the line, you would be about a quid down, and have a crying child to deal with.

You get used to anything. When I started the job, I was rubbish, hardly shifted a thing, and had a right sore arse and fishy hair to boot.

I tried allsorts to get my act together and make a sale. I tried softly softly, the Morphy Richards, and the Canadian method of pressure selling, but nothing worked. Until I stumbled upon the book.

‘Chris Eyebrow’s guide to high pressure sales and rectal trauma avoidance’

It was like this book was written just for me. I pored over its contents. It spewed forth wise words of wisely worded wisdoms from someone who is worldly wise and full of wisdom. It told me how to draw the punter in, make him an offer he thought was too good to turn down, and close the sale before he changed his mind. Also, the chapter about lining your pants with a steel plate was pretty good too.

I managed to get a pretty good sales record. My best day was when I shifted 5 pallets of peg holders – which were used cracked and split Walls Ice cream tubs – to a senile old bint in Bradford. I wore the Badger hat that day and I was very proud. It fell off once and was gently placed back on my head by a white cottoned gloved Vietnamese supervisor who bowed before returning to his corner.

I had to leave recently though, to pursue a lifelong dream of working in 100w light bulb sales. Things are looking up!
(Mon 7th Sep 2009, 11:15, More)

» Unexpected Nudity

I have a 6 month old boy.
In March this year, my wife, child, and her family decided to go up town for my wife's birthday. A nice meal and lashings of Sun -lik was had in Ping-Pong, the london eye was ridden, and I was constantly checking my phone for football updates, and Neil Harris scored a hat trick for Millwall against Hartlepool, coming back from 2 - 0 down.

A nice time was being had by all.

Then we decided to go for a drink before going home. We ended up in some stange building nearby which had a theatre in it. It was like a conference centre, but had a bar in it so all was well.

My son needed changing, so being a modern male I decided to go and change him. I slung my wifes garish changing bag onto my shoulder, picked up my son and off we went to the get his arse changed.

I found a baby changing room, opened the door, and in we went.

Only to be greeted with the sight of a big fat greasy pig of a woman woman sitting on the toilet in the corner, pulling a blood soaked cunt mouse out of her hairy clopper.

"Jesus fucking Christ, sorry!" I think I said, as my body recoiled. The roly poly chair breaker noticed me at that moment and started jabbering on in some pissed off johnny foreigner language. Of course, I had already about turned and was making for the door - no doubt giving my son a good eyeful of the irate fat fuck with her gigantic trollies around her pale swollen ankles as we exited the room.

Ordinarily I would have buggered off and found somewhere else, but this place was like a maze, and my lad needed changing. I couldn't be arsed to try and find another, and besides, what was that salad dodging flabmeister doing in there anyway? She should have gone to the ladies, which I guess was a bit too far for her waddle to.

So I waited outside for fatty boom boom to finish plugging her unkempt fadge, trying to come to terms with what I had just witnessed. She came out, clocked me and started going off on one again in German or Polish or whatever.

"You shouldn't have been in there anyway, its for baby changing" I informed her.

She looked at me blankly, so I pointed to the sign on the door. She looked at it, tutted, and waddled off.

Try as I might, I can't get the image out of my head, and my brain seems to load it up at the most inconvenient moments.

The horror. The horror.
(Wed 3rd Jun 2009, 11:31, More)
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