As an antithesis to Bad Advice's funeral cuntiness below,
When we go to the cemetery where Mrs SLVA's parents are buried, I see several children’s graves (of which there are a surprising amount of), especially of pre-school age kids. I'll pick one at random, clear away any dead flowers, get fresh water and leave a couple of fresh ones, seeing as we always take far too big a bunch of flowers ourselves.

I got caught once, just as I was putting a couple of flowers in the little pot thing, the parents arrived and asked me who I was.

"No one you know" I said
"What are you doing then?" the mother asked. So I told her. She looked at me for a couple of seconds and then threw her arms around me.
"Thank you" she said and I felt a tear against my cheek. She let go and the dad came over and shook my hand just as Mrs SLVA came over.
"He does it every time we come here. He picks a child and leaves a couple of flowers. This time it just happened to be your turn." she explained. Then we said 'bye' and left them to it. Knowing that my actions were being appreciated really made my day.

A couple of days later my missus showed me something in the local rag. There was an entry in the classifieds section. "A heartfelt thank you to the kind stranger at the cemetery". She cut it out and kept it.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 19 Jan 2010, 13:57, 27 replies)

Right now
Im anonymous do you know where I live? what gender am I? what race? take a guess because I will never tell you
(Totach arf, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 12:26, 84 replies)

Giving a little car a personality...
There used to be a tiny little Daewoo parked in my street most evenings. It wasn't owned by anyone who lived there. I could tell this because the alarm used to go off repeatedly for hours at a time and no one would come out to turn it off.

We tried leaving a note to explain the problem to the owner. Nothing happened. A week later, it was still going off every night and really getting on my nerves. My housemates and I were bemoaning our predicament in the pub to some friends, and we agreed something had to be done.

That night about fifteen of us lifted the car up and carried it to the traffic island at the end of the street, leaving it "parked" on the grass in the middle, nose poking out from the scrub, along with a note to the owner explaining "I am hiding, because lots of people are angry with me :-( ".

I presume the owner picked it up the next day, but we never saw it again.

Took ages, I nearly did my back in, and we would have had a very hard time explaining what we were doing if seen by the wrong person, but I still think it was well worth it.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:42, 5 replies)

Eleanor
A few years ago when I worked in London, I got into the habit of going to the pub of a Friday evening with a group of mates from work. The group consisted of four other blokes and Eleanor (for that was definitely not her name). Now Eleanor was a bit of a strange bird, no supermodel but kind of alluring in her own way, and incredibly filthy. During the course of these drinking sessions we had been treated to many tales and fantasies about her sexual exploits and the things that floated her boat - some of which were sexy, and some of which were just plain disturbing.

She was also prone to some highly risky behavior, such as walking home alone across Clapham Common in the dark every Friday night - despite the chivalrous protests of the blokes she regularly drank with. We knew she carried pepper spray anyway, and she always seemed to make it home safely, so we had long since got out of the habit of making a fuss about it.

So one night we're sitting in the pub as usual, when out of the blue she says in an exasperated tone "you know, I've been walking home alone in the dark every week for months - you'd think someone would have had a crack at me by now." Knowing Eleanor, none of us are particularly shocked to hear this, and we take it in stride as she elaborates on her fantasy of a shadowy figure grabbing her in dark, dragging her into the bushes and having his way with her.

But the next part we didn't see coming: "How about if one of you does the honours?" Now some uncomfortable glances are exchanged as Eleanor confirms that she wants one of her 5 male drinking buddies to basically force himself upon her on the way home that night. "I'm going to the ladies' now," she says, "so you'll have a chance to decide who it is. And we won't mention it again for the rest of the night."

While she's gone, we go through the phases of "is she joking?" and "well I'm not doing it", and quickly reach the conclusion that none of us is willing to do the deed, and in any case, we're pretty sure this is just another of her fantasies and she would never seriously follow through on it. True to her word, Eleanor changes the subject as soon as she returns, and doesn't speak of it again for the rest of the evening. At the end of the night we all charge off in different directions as usual, Eleanor taking her usual hazardous stroll across the darkened Common.

The following Friday, Eleanor arrives late to the pub having been held up at work. When she sits down she looks at each of us in turn, as if searching for something in our expressions. Apparently finding no answers there she declares "Whoever it was last week - same time again tonight?". We exchange glances, not knowing what she's talking about, and respond as such. She looks puzzled: "On the Common on the way home last Friday. You know what I'm talking about." Doubt is beginning to cloud her expression now, as we figure out how to tell her that if she did "meet" someone on the way home last week, it wasn't one of us. It takes a lot of persuasion to convince her we're not winding her up, but eventually she believes us, and looks a little shell shocked to say the least.

She tells the story: Last Friday she sets off across the Common for home, still mulling over the fantasy she discussed with the boys in the pub. She doesn't really expect any of us to actually do as she had asked, but the conversation in the pub has raised the possibility just enough past the realm of pure fantasy that she feels a little more "excited" than usual. So much so that, when she hears brisk footsteps approach her from behind and feels a strong arm around her neck, she just goes along with it and allows herself to be dragged backwards into the shadows. In her ever-eloquent words, "I was wet before he tore off my knickers." She goes into some (too much) detail about what ensued which I won't elaborate, suffice to say that her unknown partner was "forceful but not too rough" and that she was pretty sure the guy had slipped on a condom before getting down to business - which kept her convinced that "she knew her attacker". All in all, she had a pretty pleasant time.

Now, though, the normally unshakable Eleanor is looking a little spooked, but - Eleanor being Eleanor - she quickly starts to shake it off and reflect on the fact that one of her greatest fantasies actually happened without damage or consequences. (This girl, as I implied earlier, has some serious issues.) So much so that by the end of the night, she's actually joking that she can't wait to walk home to see if she'll "get lucky" again. We boys, of course, are strongly protesting that there's no way we're letting her walk home alone after last week, and that she was lucky not to get seriously hurt. But come the end of the night, her strong will trumps our alcohol-addled heads, and she toddles off home alone once more.

That night, I follow her across the common and repeat my performance from the previous week. She fucking loved it.
(WillyJohnson, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:32, 34 replies)

James! Abduction! Mutilation! Karate!
One of my former colleagues was the proud owner of a two foot tall James Brown model which he kept perched upon the edge of his desk. Unfortunately he was in the habit of pressing a little button that would cause James to scream, then launch into a colossally loud rendition of 'I Feel Good'. This was irritating, particularly as it was something that cost me money. I work selling ad space to directors of major companies across the globe. It is vital to come across on the phone as professional and knowledgeable, while being persuasive and approachable. This requires concentration. Neither the appearance of professionalism nor concentration is aided by a loud toy being activated behind you. The issue was raised, requests for James to remain silent during sales hours were ignored, and his singing became more regular, just to annoy everyone.

Clearly something needed to be done. As much as I wanted to throw James from a window, I didn't. I nicked him instead.

I had planned to hide James for a day or two before returning him to his owner with a note requesting future silence. However, I went to the pub in the meantime and as so often happens, things got a little out of hand.

A livejournal account was set up (As this is 5+ years back the exact name used escapes me, something like where's james, I think). A hotmail account was set up, and an email was sent to his owner, from James, explaining that he was fed up of being disliked by his owner's colleagues and he was going away for a while. This was reproduced online and was accompanied by a photo of James with a suitcase, standing at a taxi rank. The owner hit the roof, and over the next three weeks went straight through it. This was because James kept posting pictures and blogs detailing his adventures. By this point the whole company was reading the blogs and were thoroughly enjoying the owner's discomfort. Whilst very angry, however, James' owner was also suppressing his amusement. Had someone else been the victim he would have been enjoying it immensely.during these few weeks, James was photographed in bars and clubs, with drinks, cigarettes and the odd line in the toilet. He had kisses from girls documented, and then we got ambitious. Postcards arrived from across Europe and images of him at customs and on a plane were posted, as my friends got involved.

Then I ran out of ideas for adventures. However, I was enjoying the peace and quiet and wasn't ready to return him. So things took a turn for the sinister as James was kidnapped..

A letter arrived with James' owner a few days later, with each letter cut from a newspaper or magazine in the time-honoured style. Ransom demands were made (assorted foolish tasks, for instance, wearing his shirt inside out, odd shoes etc). These ransom demands were not met, so I was left with no alternative but to carry out my threats of mutilating James. I bought a duplicate doll (£40!!!!!) and every couple of days a hand, or limb, or nose would arrive with the owner, all sent by recorded delivery. His anger and frustration boiled over. Threats of violent retribution were made, complaints to the MD were made, and laughed out of the office, and finally the owner promised that if he got him back, he'd keep James quiet.

Another recorded delivery letter arrived the next day, containing a cryptic clue; the first of several in a treasure hunt leading to James, the whole, undamaged, unblemished James. His owner shed a tear upon finding him. Despite his best efforts he still has no idea who was behind James' absence.

As a post-script, James died soon afterwards. I left the company about a month after returning James. A week after this, the owner returned to his old ways and another colleague karate kicked James into oblivion.

RIP James
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Mon 18 Jan 2010, 20:40, 8 replies)

Not my story.
However, it's one I would like to do one day.

**********************************************************************

When you occasionally have a really bad day, and you just need to take it out on someone, don't take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don't know.I was sitting at my desk when I remembered a phone call I'd forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it.

A man answered, saying "Hello."I politely said, "This is Chris. Could I please speak with Robyn Carter?"Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear "Get the right f***ing number!" and the phone was slammed down on me. I couldn't believe that anyone could be so rude .

When I tracked down Robyn's correct number to call her, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.After hanging up with her, I decided to call the 'wrong' number again.When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled "You're an asshole!" and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word 'asshole' next to it, and put it in my desk drawer. Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I'd call him up and yell, "You're an asshole!" It always cheered me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic 'asshole' calling would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, "Hi,this is John Smith from the telephone company. I'm calling to see if you're familiar with our Caller ID Program?"He yelled "NO!" and slammed down the phone. I quickly called him back and said, "That's because you're an asshole!" and hung up.

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking Spot. Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I'd been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a "For Sale" sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number. A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had is number on speed dial,) I thought that I'd better call the BMW asshole, too.

I said, "Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?"He said, "Yes, it is." I asked, "Can you tell me where I can see it?" He said, "Yes, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax. It's a yellow ranch, and the car's parked right out in front."

I asked, "What's your name?" He said, "My name is Don Hansen," I asked, "When's a good time to catch you, Don?" He said, "I'm home every evening after five."

I said, "Listen, Don, can I tell you something?"

He said, "Yes?"

I said, "Don, you're an asshole!"

Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial, too.

Now, when I had a problem, I had two assholes to call.

Then I came up with an idea. I called asshole #1. He said, "Hello." I said, "You're an asshole!" (But I didn't hang up.) He asked, "Are you still there?" I said, "Yeah," He screamed, "Stop calling me," I said, "Make me," He asked, "Who are you?" I said, "My name is Don Hansen." He said, "Yeah? Where do you live?" I said, "Asshole, I live at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax, a yellow ranch, I have a black Beamer parked in front." He said, "I'm coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your prayers." I said, "Yeah, like I'm really scared, asshole," and hung up.

Then I called Asshole #2. He said, "Hello?" I said, "Hello, asshole," He yelled, "If I ever find out who you are..." I said, "You'll what?" He exclaimed, "I'll kick your ass," I answered, "Well, asshole, here's your chance. I'm coming over right now."

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Oaktree Blvd, in Fairfax, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.

Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Oaktree Blvd. in Fairfax.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Fairfax. I got there just in time to watch two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an overhead news helicopter and surrounded by a news crew.

NOW I feel much better. Anger management really does work.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 14 Jan 2010, 20:06, 11 replies)

Not me, but wish it was...
Bit of a pea roast, but appropriate...
A guy I worked with rode his motorbike to work every day and one day was cut off, intentionally by some guy who forced him off the road, watched him crash and yelled "Sucker!" or somethign similar as he drove away. The motorbike rider got his numberplate though and this being Queensland in the 1980s, called a mate on the force who quite happily gave him the driver's name, address and phone number.
So later that day he phones him up...
"Hello? This is the guy on the black Ducati you cut off today. I'm going to get you. Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but sooner or later I'm going to get you..."
And this went on for AGES. The driver changed his number, even moved house (coincidental, I'm sure, not becuase of the calls) but every time the friend in uniform would give him the new details and he'd start up again. Years after it all started I ran into my old colleague in a pub and asked what had happened.
"You know what? I haven't called him in about two years! Let's give it a go!"
And off to the payphone...
"Hello mate, its me, the guy on the black Ducati..."
Apparently at this point the guy just started screaming "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!!!" And up he hung.
I like to think that every now and then he still makes a call.
( difficultchild, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 0:05, 11 replies)

Worst anon thing for me methinks
is giving fake advice on an internet forum for epileptics. A few kids on there were talking about wanting to play their favourite games, but were being set off by the strobing effects of their monitors.

So....I...um...left an anonymous post saying how scientists had discovered that the main trigger for seizures is too much information being passed to the visual cortex in the frontal lobe while staring at the fluctuating light source. 1 way to combat this flood of information though is to wear an eye-patch, which limits the amount of visual stimulation thus preventing the cortex from overloading the brain.

After a few excited responces, I went back onto the forum thread later on to see the results. A few kids had replied back with "Didn't work mate, still had a seizure" and one kid asked what I would've expected as a result from getting kids to wear an eye-patch testing this?

My answer was simple; "YARRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!"

I never went on that forum again.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 12:25, 18 replies)

Murder scene & small town mentality.
I arrived at work one morning to be greeted by the news that a terrible murder had occured in the town.
The details of each story I heard were of varying degrees of severity, the whole town was buzzing with the news. Phone calls and texts were exchanged, gossip was rife, this was exciting stuff.

But I knew the truth.

The previous night (after kicking out time) it was blowing a hooly and a pub in the town was losing slates off the roof at an incredible rate.
The police turned up and cordoned off the pavement with their tape in case anyone copped a slate on the bonce.
Now, people going to work in the morning had to go past the scene. They see the tape, "Ooh, what's going on here?". They recognise the pub as not being one of the nicest places to frequent.

And then?

They see the chalk outlines of a man and a dog and a knife lying within the bounds of the police tape.
They conclude in their tiny minds that a man and his dog were stabbed to death.

A classic whodunnit.


Amazing the amount of fun one can have with a piece of chalk.
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 10:33, 6 replies)

Edited again for Amorous Badger.
Yawn.

[mod edit: read the replies for an explanation]
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 15:45, 140 replies)

The scariest occurrence of failed anonymity was when I accidentally acquired a full-on internet stalker...
In the olden days the best place to find free porn was at bus stops or under benches in semi-deserted provincial train stations. But then along came the internet and...

I was perusing one of those specialist websites, looking at all the ropey old slappers who put up ‘sexy pics’ of themselves and ask you to send photos to them with your cock out, with a printed out photo of them in front of you, with your splodge covering said photo in your special homemade fixing solution.

Most of these ladies were, well, fuck-ugly old Pat Butcher wannabes. They looked like warthogs in drag. But then I stumbled across one who made me harder than a panther with a flick knife and a pathological hatred of everything in the Universe. She was named Mandy and she was from Romford.

Without thinking too much about it, I printed off the sexiest, sluttiest photo from Mandy’s spread, got out my camera and set about releasing a few battalions of wriggly warriors onto the photo of Mandy’s delectable little arse, taking a few snaps of my boner for posterity as I went. After I’d splurted over the super close up of Mandy’s shaven haven, I took a few snaps of my splodge. Took a snap of my bell end dangling in the splodge, then I uploaded the pics and sent them off to Mandy with a sexy little message telling her how much I enjoyed her arty, tasteful photo series, and how much they’d given me the raging horn.

Then I went to bed.

Unfortunately the next day I received an email from Mandy... I wasn’t expecting this. I thought – in my complete and utter ignorance of all things technical and internet-related, that my *ahem* homemade adult erotica would be totally anonymous. I’d made a point of cutting my head off all the photos. Mandy said on her webpage she wanted cock and cum, so that’s what I gave her. She didn’t want a person attached, just a cock – any cock.

But, being a technology retard, I sent her the email from my own personal hotmail account showing my entire personal email address which was, in fact, my full REAL name followed by @hotmail.com...

For the next few weeks I received shitloads of emails from Mandy from Romford. For the most part she was obsessed with the idea of her husband shooting a load up her arse, then using his spunk as lube for me to have a go. It was frightening. My first furtive outings in the world of the internet cyberwank and I’d acquired my own personal cum obsessed groupie. Then Mandy from Romford sent me some pics of her husband. I went from frightened to full on shitting-bricks-for-England uncontrollable panic. Mr Mandy from Romford was a builder, about twenty stone of pure tattooed muscle, and apparently he was quite keen on having a go on me too...

One line from one of the emails is forever burned into my memory. It’s when Brian (Mr Mandy from Romford’s name) stated: I’d really like to take your prick all the way up my arsehole, I’ve got a very firm, strong arsehole, I think you’d really enjoy it.

Then, in a moment of sheer boredom at work, I googled my name, as you do from time to time. And the resulting search found at the top of the page a link to my cock. My cock dangling in a puddle of cum blurted over a photo of Mandy from Romford. She’d only gone and put the pic on her site with my FULL FUCKING NAME underneath.

After my breathing had returned to normal and I’d stopped whimpering like a bitch, I set about emailing the site administrator and after a few painful days, hoping none of my family or friends decided to look me up on the web, I managed to get my cock taken off the internet. I closed my hotmail. I severed all ties with my creepy stalkers and managed not to have to have a stab at Brian’s cornhole with my dick while Mandy stood over us, furiously rubbing her beef curtain flaps.

OK, I accept I was a complete fucking idiot for sending compromising snaps of myself to a complete fucking stranger – but in my defence she was incredibly hot and incredibly naked...

The worst part is that I’m convinced, absolutely convinced, that my parents sat down at their shiny new Tiny computer (this is going back a while now) at the time and had a little play on the interweb. They’ve never really looked at me, their angelic son who’s a beacon for all that’s good and pure, in the same way since then. Always been a bit of a we know what you did, you dirty fucker air about our conversations ever since...

Anonymous??? I FUCKING WISH!!!
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:33, 13 replies)

pennies from heaven
My first office job I worked in a mail room (oft refered to as the "male" room, I was the only female) Anywhoo, I got this idea one day to pick a name at random from the 600 employees the company had. Name landed on a quiet middle aged man who worked on the third floor.

Every day I would tape a penny to a blank sheet of company letterhead and interoffice mail it to him. Used to make me smile when I would deliver the mail and see the little stack of pennies on his desk.

When I left that job I finally told him it had been me. He said he would be sad that I left as he was saving for retirement and it brought a smile to his face every day.
(omkranti, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 23:03, 3 replies)

Last night of Reading Festival
a few years ago. Having accepted an offer of a ticket from my ex girlfriend the weekend had been an exercise in smoking too much gear with her friends and avoiding her late nights advances... I was kept on my toes mentally and physically - I was in the Zone...

So, having enjoyed the last nights bands, I came back to our campsite to find that the power had died and the floodlighting was down. The scene was reminiscent of pre battle night during a medieval war... thick smoke hung all round, the clashing of drunken warriors and wailing of women, the flying baked bean cans and burning tents fuelling the atmosphere...

On finding my tent intact I wandered down the way and found about 50 people crowded around one of the telegraph poles, with a half naked youth trying his damnedest to reach the top. An fail. Another... failed.

I approached and was grabbed by the arms and led to the totem. Cries of derision rang in my ears as I was tarred with the brush of previous failures. And then I started to climb.

Now. I was 35 at the time and to be honest, haven't stopped climbing trees for more than a winter since I was about 5 years old. So I promptly got halfway up before the chants started...

"Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve", the cries rang out over the campsite like I was a prima gladiator having slain the latest victim. I reached the top and victoriously slapped my hand on the top of the pole before I descended at a rate of knots, and left the pole behind at about 10 ft.

I threw myself backwards and the crowd caught me, and started throwing me up and down - I was finally hoisted onto the shoulders of the nearest giant and paraded around my new circles of admirers, cries of "Steve" still filling the heady nightime air...

I didn't have the heart to tell them my name is not Steve.
(hengushrh is found at the Dole office every second thursday, Mon 18 Jan 2010, 18:54, 3 replies)

Nothing bad really
I mail money anonymously to the families of firefighters and police officers who die in the line of duty.
(Subway Riding the rails underground, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 2:55, 2 replies)

Turdzilla
I am a firm believer in the "shit at work" principle: it saves money on bog roll, and means that essentially you are getting paid to shit (try not shit during your lunch break though, as really it's your own time you're using, not your employer's).

One day last autumn, I got the usual bowel-call partway through the morning. I must have had a particularly fibrous meal the evening before, since the turd took far longer to emerge than usual, and required no little amount of effort on my part. When it had finally made its turdy way out of my body, I had a quick look to see what exactly had resulted in me panting like a paedophile in Topshop; thus I spied Turdzilla. Pale brown in colour, one end was rearing proudly from the top of the water, whilst the body plunged down into the u-bend and out of sight. It truly was a magnificent sight.

I did what any red-blooded male would do (which is odd, as I'm female) and had a quick giggle, then wiped up and flushed. Then I did what any red-blooded female would do, and had a quick glance to check that everything had been flushed away properly.

It hadn't.

One end was still poking above the water, except this time it was draped in wet loo roll, giving it the appearance of a particularly unwelcome ghost. I tried flushing again, which shifted some of the soggy shroud, but did nothing to shift my brown trout. Clearly the other end had become wedged in the u-bend, and my little bog-baby had such fortitude and strength that mere flushing wasn't going to break it in two and let it make a bid for freedom down the sewers.

Damn. What was I to do? Clearly this was a bit of an emergency, and the situation had to be handled with delicacy and tact. So I whipped out my phone and composed a text message of such wondrous prose that it brought a tear to my eye (This morning i did a gargantuan poo of such length that it got wedged round the ubend. It was at work as well, so the satisfaction was double. How are you you?) and sent it to Grandmasterfluffles.* Then I made sure the coast was clear and sneaked out, taking a diversion via another office so I would approach my own office from a direction unrelated to the loos.

10 minutes later there was a faint cry of disgust, the sound of futile flushing, and a sign appeared on the door to the ladies: "Toilets Out of Order". Several of the ladies in my office spoke in shocked tones about the size of turd that had broken the office loos, and wondering who the pooey culprit was. I sat there nodding and tutting away with them, biting back the words "it was meeeeeeeeeeeeee! Me and my Turdzilla!"

Shortly after that we moved offices, and Turdzilla has been forgotten by all but his proud, proud creator.


*As it happens, she'd lent her phone to her mother a week previously, so I'd just unwittingly alerted Mother Grandmasterfluffles to my scatalogical hilarity. Fortunately she found it funny. But then, Mother Grandmasterfluffles has been mentioned on these boards before: www.b3ta.com/questions/toomuchinformation/post89185
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 16:24, 7 replies)

Down & Out DOT COM
Many years ago I worked for a "new media" company, basically a web production outfit selling overpriced sites to companies convinced it would make them huge international traders overnight. The boss was a total arsehole and did a good job of upsetting numerous staff so the turnover was reasonably high.

However this 90's media whore of a man was obsessed with company image/branding. Every member of staff had to wear work issued polo shirts with the logo emblazoned upon it, likewise he got the logo everywhere he could for publicity in the interests of publicising the clean image of the company.

After leaving the company "Someone" gave their work polo shirts to the dirtiest, scruffiest, special brew drinking tramps and pissheads that could be found at the train station.

As you can imagine it wasn't long before clients were asking in meetings why beggars/drunks/societies worst were dressed in the company uniform.
As for stopping this blight on the company image? ....Lets face it, you can hardly ask a homeless guy to give you his shirt can you?
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 17:42, 4 replies)

This.


I may or may not have been involved with the building of the pictured snow sculpture on a roundabout in Basingstoke (for there are many), late one night last week.

It was the greatest achievment of my life.

I'm 35. : /
(A Load Of Aliens, Wed 20 Jan 2010, 1:35, 13 replies)

Thief....
On one ship I was on we had a communal fridge in the "day room" where we could store our day necessities without having to go to our cabins to our own fridges.It was usually stocked with soft drinks, sandwiches purloined from the galley and treats bought onshore (cakes, sweets,frozen dinners- that type of thing). I never had a problem with theft until this ship where soft drinks disappeared at an alarming rate. The arse definitely loved my Dr Pepper.

We all tried to catch the arse but he was good, very good. We didn't even have a suspect and all the little things that made ship board life a little more comfortable were being stolen from right under our noses. We started leaving stuff in our own cabin fridges but that was a real hassle, having to change dirty clothes for clean ones before going into our accommodation to our cabins.

So I hit upon the idea of injecting some corrosive substance into my Dr Peppers.... and leaving it in the fridge. I gently froze a can to minus 20, drilled a hole in the base, drilled more to remove some of the frozen contents, filled up the hole with a generous amount of concentrated laxative from the sick bay and silver soldered the hole in the aluminium can.

Over two days I defrosted the can and left it with another couple in the day fridge.It didn't stand out too much even though it had a slight ripple in the casing.

Two days later the third officer(manned the sick bay) had a visit from the bo'sun who complained that he couldn't stop shitting and that every time he stood up from the toilet he filled his kegs with brown water. :)

For 4 days he was confined to the sick bay, insatiable thirst and continuous splatter and with the prognosis of extreme food poisoning. At the next port (Tripoi from memory) he was hospitalised ashore and eventually repatriated to some hospital in the UK to have a giant plug inserted in his rectum. Well I don't know about the plug but I do know the arse lost his contract and my Dr Pepper didn't disappear anymore.

And he doesn't know who did it!!!!

Length- long but necessary
(Jimmyinnz was sprung at work on b3ta on, Tue 19 Jan 2010, 8:06, 7 replies)

Huntingdon Life Sciences eat your heart out
Back when I was a second year student (and hence broke), I tried earning a bit of money in the summer holiday by working in a lab. I had to go through a number of interviews with funny questions, which seemed odd for what I thought would be a couple of months of just scribbling things down on clipboards, but it became clear when I realised I'd inadvertently entered the world of animal testing. It turned out that I wasn't actually expected to force feed beagles or sellotape rabbits' eyes open though (just scribble things down on clipboards), so was just happy to have a source of income, and happily embarked on a summer of walking round a non-descript building in Aylesbury with a white coat and an attitude. I should also point out that I wasn't involved in the production of cosmetics or beauty products, but just looking at the effects of various narcotics on rodents, which is where my misdemeanour comes in.

About a week and a half before my employment was due to end, I was tasked with dosing our test subjects with MDMA. Being of low scruples at the time, but not inclined to major pilferage, I reasoned that a single vial of what I knew was 100% pure (and therefore "safe") ecstasy probably wouldn't be missed, and managed to swipe one for myself, substituting an empty from an old experiment so the number in the rack was correct. As it turned out, I was nearly rumbled when the stupid animals all decided to spazz out from the tiny dose they were given, apart from the poor bugger I'd deprived of his hit. Luckily it was written off as a statistical anomaly, and my supervisor never realised he was actually a non-E mouse.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 19 Jan 2010, 15:11, 12 replies)

Remembered a homeless man.
First QOTW post. Be nice.

Crossing over the bridge on my way into town for lunch one grey Tuesday afternoon, I walked past a load of police cars, tape, and a forensics van with people in those white onesies milling around. Getting the horrible scared sinking feeling in my gut, I was too afraid to approach the policemen and women who were standing by the tape. But I knew something bad had happened.

A colleague's girlfriend was working for the police at the time and had access to a police radio, so along with local news and her text updates, we found out that some of the homeless guys I'd seen many times by the river had had a fight, and one had ended up in the river. Another colleague had driven past police, fire and ambulance gathered further down the Wey. Dribs and drabs of news came through, and via the police radio we heard he'd been pulled out and taken to hospital, still alive but not doing well.

On Thursday we found out he'd died the night before. That sick feeling hit me again. I'm not sure why I felt so strongly about it, but I couldn't get it out of my head; feeling so sad, yet simultaneously numb.

Thursday's lunchbreak was horrible; walking past where before, there had been commotion and lots of police, there was now no-one - and nothing to indicate any incident had even happened there.

All I did was buy some flowers and put them on a bench where I'd seen them hanging around before. I didn't know this guy and I didn't know what had happened to cause the fight that lead to his death, but I just wanted something there. Nobody saw me, and there was no point in writing anything as I had nothing to say.

The flowers were gone by lunchtime on Friday. Now there's a sign on the bridge asking for information, as there's a murder enquiry.

I don't know if they did anything, drew anyone's attention or let somebody know that respect was being paid. But something inside me demanded that it had to be done.

www.getsurrey.co.uk/news/s/2061585_homeless_man_in_court_accused_of_river_wey_murder
(fevaxyn went umop apisdn uo, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 12:42, 13 replies)

I'm sure it's bindun, but...
I have a habit of, when redecorating, leaving little messages for the next people to uncover.

Under a new lounge carpet, on a rectangular section on the concrete that I especially discoloured: "the bodies are under here"

On some plywood I used to cover up a boiler exhaust (before I put the wallpaper up): "have you found the bodies yet?"

On the underside of the floor on a new shed: "If you are reading this, I was killed and buried here. Please tell the police!"

Under the sand I used to level the ground, before I put a new brick patio down, I put a grotesquely twisted white tape body outline - with a severed head - and some scraps of "police line, do not cross" yellow tape

Under the wallpaper, on a fairly thick wall on an old house in Somerset "Have you found the money yet?"

On some breeze block I used to block up an old central heating vent: "IRA Arms cache - do not open"

I've been the recipient or witness of a couple, too:

Once, I was *ahem* fixing the odometer on an old Cortina. I opened it up and there was a little note inside: "Oh, no - not again!"

And - a pearoast - a mate's BMW kept getting broken into, and the radio nicked, while parked in a multi-story car park in Bristol. Eventually, he got sick of it and didn't bother with a replacement. He left a note on the dash saying "no radio fitted". Someone smashed the window and wrote on his note "just checking"
(lustfish, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 5:27, Reply)

Cats Protection
One of the more shameful incidents from my past.

A few years ago I worked in a pub not far from where I lived in North London. On my route to work there was a Cat’s Protection center, a organisation which I would presume exists for the protection of cats.

One particular night, after having had a few too many after-work beverages, I was staggering towards my house when I spied a dead cat lying in the middle of the road. Poor thing, must’ve been struck by a car. It was at that point I suddenly realised I was standing no further than 20 yards away from the aforementioned Cats Protection building. A Light went on in my pissed-up head.

For some reason, my booze-addled brain thought it would be hilarious to pick up said dead cat, walk over to the building and anonymously drape it across the windscreen of the ‘Cats Protection’ emblazoned company car parked outside.

I can only imagine the look of disgust from any passers-by the following morning, or indeed from the staff turning up for the Saturday shift.


I know, I'm a terrible cunt.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 11:47, 9 replies)

It's Just Not Tennis.........
College being somewhat rural, and the last bus back from town being 9:30, we were often at a loss of something to do on those long balmy summer evenings.

Staggering back from the bar a little the worse for wear, we saw the entire contents of someone's room neatly arranged on the cricket square. What a laff! What a wheeze! what a jape!

Except that upon further inspection it turned out to be my room! Bastards!

*wavy lines*

Two weeks later, walking back from the bar, the culprit (we'll call him "Geoff" for convenience sake) noticed a space where his car was usually parked. Upon closer inspection he found his car to have been "parked" in the centre of the tennis courts. Through a gate half the width of his car. And there it sat!

It took the college gardners a week to work out how I'd managed to get it there through 10 foot high chain link fencing!

Still makes me chuckle.
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 14 Jan 2010, 20:25, 9 replies)

Snow cock
I used to live next door to our school, which was fine for nipping home for stuff, but meant you could never, ever have an excuse for being late.

One night, it snowed. I had to get up early for my paper round, and looking over the school gate, I could see the pristine, virgin snow in the school playground.

There was only one thing for it. Under the cover of darkness, I stole in, and trampled out a fifty-foot long speed-cock in the snow, and legged it for the newsagents.

School assembly.

The headmaster got up on his podium with a grave look on his face.

"Who did it?" he thundered. "Who did that THING in the playground?"

I sat there, ashen-faced, radiating guilt.

"Mrs Ackrill, the caretaker's wife" he stormed, "Mrs Ackrill saw it and had one of her turns".

I thought about it, and considered sticking my hand in the air to own up. No point getting anybody into trouble, and there would be a certain status for being The Boy Who Made The Fifty Foot Snow Cock.

Status that could involve girls.

"There will be NO break-time this morning. Anyone seen in the playground without good excuse faces a week of after-school detention."

I sat on my hands and bit my tongue. For owning up after the entire school had been dealt this collective punishment would have signed my own death warrant.

But now I can confess. It was I who spoiled the entire school's snow fun.

It was I who caused hundreds of kids to watch helplessly from classroom windows as the snow slowly disappeared.

For, by home-time, it had rained, and both the snow and the fucking huge penis were gone.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 14 Jan 2010, 13:59, 9 replies)

A couple of years ago, one of my friends was a total fuckwit.
He was drinking from 6am until 11pm on a weekend, every weekend, without fail. But he was also driving home every night from the bar. He got into a few accidents, hit and run sorts, but everyone was too ambivelant to bother calling the cops on him when he was leaving the bar.

Don't get me wrong, I've gotten a DUI myself which I'm not proud of, but as has been proved many a time I learned my lesson from that one to the extent my car has been towed from the bar parking lot as I chose to get a cab home instead of driving. That kind of thing. And I choose to be designated driver on girls nights out so I know that we're all safe.

One night, this friend was totally fucked up. Couldn't walk straight, couldn't stand straight. Turns out he'd been on a 3 day bender and not even bothered going into work or calling in sick.
That night in the bar, as he's getting ready to leave, I called the cops with his license plate number and the direction I knew he'd be going. His tags (registration) were also expired, giving the cops the reason to pull him over (in California, you cannot get pulled over on suspicion of drunk driving unless it's at a checkpoint). He got pulled over for expired tags, charged with DUI and then resisted arrest and swung at the officer. He got the choice of 30 days in jail, or 90 days in an alcohol rehab program. He took the rehab and has now just celebrated two years of sobriety.

Nobody knows it was me, and the friend was FURIOUS when a few of us visited him in rehab and wanting to know who it was (the cops told him there'd been a phone call, but they're obligated to keep it anonymous). I'm still never going to tell him it was me, nowadays he says it was his guardian angel.
And since then, a few friends from the bar no longer drink and drive, just in case.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sun 17 Jan 2010, 23:34, 10 replies)

Silly Cows.
Those of you that watched Central TV in 1985 may recall seeing on the news a report of hideous acts of vandalism against cows. Or to be more precise someone had gone to a farm that was adjacent to the M5 and used pink aerosol spray cans to paint 'moo!' 'mmm beef' and 'steak here' on the side of some cattle for all the commuters to see on their way up and down the motorway. (Oh - and anarchy symbols on their hind quarters for added effect.)

It caused quite an uproar with villagers from nearby Upton St Leonards with them suggesting the reinstatement of national service or the return of the death penalty for such crimes, and even a local MP appearing saying that the people who did it could cause the death of cows due to stress and poisoning. Utter nonsense of course but great press for Sally Oppenheim for that was her name.

The local papers had much to say about it especially after the following week another farm further down the M5 had the same done to it's livestock, but this time with cartoon cocks, 'meat is murder' and 'meat is yummy' now emblazoned on the poor creatures. One person even said they nearly crashed as they were so shocked too see such an outrageous offence to their sensibilities.

The final act was again one week later - and this time it was not quoted in the press but the cows were now tagged with the words 'eat' 'pigs' and 'instead' as a message of support for the bovines. The words 'fuck' and 'you' were added to two others in the hope that these would stand next to Daisy who unknowingly wore the word 'pigs' - this of course intending to be a message to the Police who would no doubt be called to investigate this heinous crime.

After nearly 25 years I feel the time has come to stand up and apologise to the following:

- any cows that were harmed.
- any farmers who had their livlihood challenged in some unknown manner.
- to the Crass-fan squatters who got raided by over zealous Police who wanted to pin it on them.
- anyone fucking stupid enough to be offended.

In our defence we were very young, had been reading some very odd books, but most tellingly had a freezer full of hand picked mushrooms and had been chomping on them for a good month.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 20:51, 2 replies)

i shall probably regret telling you this
when I was doing my A levels, the internet didn't exist, so I had to go to the library to research stuff and, you know, read actual books.
On one occasion, the book I needed had to be ordered in, and when it arrived I found inside, presumably having been used as a bookmark, the previous borrower's request card.

That had her name and home address written on it.

So every so often, when I was bored, I would write her a letter.
I have no idea if she ever received them, or if she did, what her reaction was.
(They weren't weird or sexual or threatening or anything - usually just a retelling of something interesting I had found out about, so hopefully she wouldn't have been upset by them)

After a while I realised just how pointless and stupid it was, so I stopped.
( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Fri 15 Jan 2010, 21:56, 4 replies)

anonymous - how apt...
a lot of you read my tale of the nightmare that is dubai

ominousdubai.blogspot.com/2009/06/burned-in-dubai.html

many of you were also very helpful and encouraging, particularly legless the king of the googlebomb! im delighted to be able to tell you all i have just today been offered a fantastic job with a great company.

my family and i can now start again after the worst year of our lives.

and best of all my kid gets his toys back soon.

thanks again for all the support
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Mon 18 Jan 2010, 18:14, 19 replies)

Weston-super-Mare Gnomes
In Weston-super-Mare one night a number of years ago myself and a mischievous chum came down with a bout of kleptomania, presumably caused by the imbibition of huge excesses of alcohol. Homeward-bound from a night of debauchery in a strange residential area, a garden gnome was espied, then retrieved, from some unsuspecting resident's front garden. We decided the gnome was to be our pet, and that I would be the first to enjoy our "shared custody" of him.

The next evening, my guilt and regret for this act of theft made unbearable by my still-present hangover, I figured the best bet would be to return "Dave T. Gnome" (his new moniker) home under the cover of night... A "drive-by gnome re-homing", if you will. On the drive there I passed my friend from the evening prior and stopped to give him a lift home. Unfortunately the combination of his mischievous willfulness and my carefree attitude led to us not returning Dave, but instead driving the streets for hours, scouting for more gnomes to purloin.

Our reprehensible gnome-thieving behaviour continued off-and-on for about five weeks, at the end of which, in addition to Dave, we had accumulated some thirty-two gnomes and various garden ornaments of similar nature. These were all of varying sizes (I definitely remember we had two stone tortoises - one the size of my hand and one about a foot high which took all my strength to lift).

As I was too lazy to move them after their filching, they had remained in the boot of my car. This made it particularly awkward when driving as roundabouts and tight corners shifted the weight enough to make the rear-end "kick out" a little at anything over 15 MPH. So I had to somehow get rid of them, surreptitiously.

Of course, we didn't actually want these things, and a few weeks later, thinking it was time they were returned but realising I couldn't remember where each came from, I drove at 3a.m. to a local park, where I made several trips offloading them. After half-an-hour I had carefully arranged them all in a single small area amongst the bushes.

The following week, a half-page article on page three of the local paper reported that a young girl who was playing in the park was delighted when she had stumbled upon the sight of thirty-odd garden gnomes and various stone creatures placed as if talking to each other at a cocktail party. The reporter couldn't explain where the heavy stone ornaments had come from or why they'd been put there and appealed for any resident of the town who was missing a garden decoration to call the newspaper to have it returned. I was happy that these folks would have their gnomes back, relieved that my friend and I wouldn't be getting reprimanded for it, and quietly proud that I'd made the paper (albeit anonymously). A silly, perhaps idiotic, thing to do, but hopefully reading the story brightened some folks' day.

Length? What matters is not the length of the wand, but the magic in the stick... apparently. :)
( kitaro is all, like, "Nifty Biscuits" 'n that..., Sat 16 Jan 2010, 19:13, 2 replies)

Watford Harlequin car park
If you ever had a note on your windscreen saying "You park like a twat" then that was me.

You were parked like a twat.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Sat 16 Jan 2010, 11:43, 2 replies)