Cash and Carry... Again
Aha! A QOTW that finally allows me to get a pea roast in!

As you may know, yet probably won't because I'm an incredibly boring person, I used to work at a Cash and Carry. Now the Floor Manager (read: less important than a boss) there was a loonie of global proportions. This was one of my first jobs at the fresh, pimply faced age of 15 and I was regularly sodomised by her for the most minor of infractions. These included:

1) Another work aspect of mines was looking after children with severe learning difficulties (All the women now coo, and someone calls me a spack.) I had signed up for some 5 day training/team building nonsense up North, mainly so I could abseil and other interesting things under the pretense of liking people. I signed up for my time off with the manager and everything was hunky dory, it was even marked on the calendar "Mr Cavalier shall not be here for x week, phone Mark."

This would prove to go outwith Tina (For that is her name) 's notice. I returned after my five days to plug out a bit of work, only to be dragged into the office and have a 10 minute chewing out about how I was not allowed to simply walk in and out when I fancied it. After trying vainly to convince her to look at the calendar, she finally did. Did she admit she was wrong? Did she buggery, she simply told me I was late and to get started. I was late because of her bollocks. However this was not the worst

2) I had phoned up my work to let them know I'd be needing time off. Now at this point I'd worked there a year, and apart from having those 5 days off, I had never been late, nor had I had a sick day either. I phoned on the Monday to ask for the Thursday shift off. This shift consisted of three hours of pulling my tadger in the office because there was bugger all to do. It was statistically our least busy time, and I really did do bugger all. I was not given it off. I was pretty pissed, so I phoned back on the Tuesday to again request the time. Again I was denied.

The reason I wanted that time off? To play rugby, in the Scottish final, at Murrayfield, the International stadium. I decided they could kiss my ginger pubus and I would not be in attendance that evening. Or any other time from there on in.

Last I heard the geordie bloke that worked there had went mental and not turned up for about 4 months but was still on the payroll, the forklift operator's wife had left him and he had gone insane, drunk himself daft and tried to hang himself. Best of all, that bitch Tina had been transferred out of the Edinburgh sector. "But to where Mr Cavalier?!"

The bitch is now in Dundee. Screw you God, your not funny.
(TheVomitingCavalier entered one image challenge and failed miserably, Fri 25 Jan 2008, 9:02, Reply)