BEVERLEY HILLS COP & THE SUPERGLUE INCIDENT
This moment of office-counter-bullying tom foolery led to the scariest car journey of my life.

It was absolutely fucking buttock-clenchingly, spew-my-lunch, piss-myself repeatedly terrifying. I spent the journey travelling from Brighton to London with my eyes shut, praying to God, Allah, Buddha, and even Lewis Hamilton that I’d get back to the smoke in one piece. I was – in point of fact – a sweaty nervous wreck by the time I was dropped off at Kings Cross (well, more so than I usually am anyway).

But lets go back in time a few days, Marty McFly style...(only without the fucking-my-own-mum subplot, unforunately - my mum was fucking HOT when she was in her twenties)...

I used to work with an absolute cunt named Beverly Hills Cop – a twat from the Home Counties named Edward Murphy who had been brought up on a healthy regime of badger bating, fox hunting and wanking off members of the local young conservatives club in the backrooms of country clubs. The bloke was an absolute grade A, top-of-the-class, colossal, 29 carat, solid gold cunt; he was the king of cuntdom.

Edward Murphy - Beverley Hills Cop to the rest of us - was also a monumental bully and thick as pig shit. He’d got to a pretty high position of seniority in the company I worked for by depositing a nice healthy amount of manfat in the bosses daughter on a regular basis. He was marriage material, apparently. He was one of the family. He was - as far as everyone else in the firm was concerned - absolutely fucking untouchable.

The two of us had been seconded down to Brighton for a week to sort out a presentation to some bigwig client for this sales firm I used to work for. I’d handed in my notice a few weeks previously and really didn’t want to go, but had no fucking choice. I think the boss realised Beverley Hills Cop was too fucking stupid to sort out the contract without a bit of help. So, we’re down in the Brighton office, two twats from London in suits, and Beverly Hills Cop starts acting like Billy Big Balls, ordering the underlings round and generally treating the locals like they were his inferior country hick slaves. He spent the first three days shouting at random people and abusing his I'm-fucking-the-bosses-daughter superpowers. He considered himself something of the practical joker too and thought it would be fucking hillarious, a morale builder, to piss about with people and superglue their possessions to their desks, put superglue on the coat rack, even leave a thin layer of the stuff on somebody's keyboard when they went off for a piss. Oh, how we all laughed while he cack-handedly bullied his way through the staff with the aid of a tube of Loctite...

And he did all of this thinking no one knew it was him, the prick.

Then on the Thursday before the presentation, when it was prepared and ready to roll first thing on the Friday morning, we’re sat round kicking our heels and Beverley Hills Cop strides in, stinking of Lynx Africa and Brylcream, takes me to one side and whispers:

“I’ve just done something so fucking funny – Spanky, you are gonna piss yourself at this!”

“Oh, what have you done, Ed?” I asked.

“Just wait!”

And one of the Brighton peeps, a nice lad named Jim, got up to go to the bogs. And he didn't come back. After awhile one of his mates went looking for him, only to come back moments later to advise Jim was stuck on the bogs.

"Somebody put superglue on the toilet seat," he said wearily. "Jim's nearly got himself free, but he has to go slow or he'll rip his skin off." And he looked directly at Beverly Hills Cop, who was sat at his desk grinning like a twat and trying not to laugh.

Nobody else found it funny - it had been a hard week. The company was going through a rough patch and nobody wanted to complain for fear of having a nice, bright and shiney P45 land on their desk. Eveyone just wanted the weekend to roll round; beer, drugs, the faint possibility of a one night stand with a random stranger - all good clean and wholesome fun.

Beverley Hills Cop came up to me when Jim finally made it back to his desk and gafawed like the cunt he was and showed me the tube of superglue, hidden in the palm of his hand so no one else could see.

"Don't tell anyone - but it was me!" he said. "Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

Oh, yeah, really fucking harmless you fucking walking shit stain, cunty cock sucking, horse-shagging mong! But he was, as I've said, untouchable. I could hardly go to the bosses and complain.

After a few minutes Beverley Hills Cop put on his jacket and fucked off back to his hotel. One of the locals sidled up to me:

“That cunt has made our lives a misery for a week, Spanky. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

I explained Beverley Hills Cop was untouchable. That he was fucking the bosses daughter and if I made a complaint about him fuck all would happen. They seemed dispondent. But then I remembered something, a revelation that'd been staring me in the face, something so fucking obvious I'd completely discounted it:

I was a bigger cunt than this Home Counties tosspot.

And he’d actually put an idea in my head. “I’m just popping out to pick up some stuff,” I said, grabbing my coat and wondering off to do a spot of shopping.

I then proceeded to abuse my expenses account to the degree your average MP would’ve been proud of and went back to my hotel, chuckling like a moron.

In the morning of the big sales presentation I got in early, sat at the window and waited until I saw Beverley Hills Cop walk up the street. Then I set the trap while the locals watched, chuckling.

“You sure about this, Spanky?” One asked.

I shurugged: “As my old grandmother used to say – fuck it. Anyway, I'm leaving soon - if any shit comes about from this, I'll just say it was me.”

And then we sat back and waited.

Beverley Hills Cop came into the office, strode over to his desk, saw what I’d placed there, reached out and picked it up firmly in one hand and started shouting. And when he realised the thing was smeared in superglue and he couldn’t let go, he started shouting some more. Then he panicked. Then he started to whimper about the presentation he had to give in fifteen minutes. Then he threatened to have everyone fired.

“Don’t think it would look good if you went back to London and told um what’s happened, what with you doing something similar yesterday,” I reasoned, taking him to one side. “Tell you what – I’ll lead the presentation. You can sit there and cover your hand with a folder or something and we’ll sort out getting that thing off afterwards.”

Beverley Hills Cop considered this - the tiny cogs were turning in his inbred brain. Eventually, he shrugged and agreed.

And I did the presentation, the row of suits from this Sussex-based property firm sitting round the table looking professional and competent, while Beverley Hills Cop sat in a corner, watching, nodding, adding the occasional: “Hmmm, yes!” while hiding his hand under a strategically placed and rather posh leather document holder he'd found.

After the presentation the suits stand up, say they’ll consider the pitch, and reach out to shake my hand, as is customary in this sort of situation. And then the lead suit, a woman in a sharp business suit who would’ve scared the shit out of Helen Mirren in Prime Suspect, turned to Beverely Hills Cop, and said:

“I think we can do business,” and she extended her hand to him.

And Beverley Hills Cop went pale as a fucking bedsheet. He reached up with his left hand. The woman stood there resolutely offering her right hand. I stood by my whiteboard enjoying seeing the fucker squirm, but then he did something horrible, something awful, something that made my jaw drop slackly open.

What a STUPID FUCKING PRICK!

He removed the folder and showed her his other hand; he could've just said it was busted or something! The thick cunt!

“Just a bit of office fun,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

The MD of this major client looked down at his hand, and all credit to her, her only reaction was to raise her eyebrows slightly and, after a beat, said: “Indeed – I just hope you wern't planning to offer me that to sweeten the deal,” and then she spun on her heel and strode out the room followed by her entourage. "We'll get back to you early next week."

And we were alone... wondering if that had really just happened.

I glanced over at Beverley Hills Cop, he glanced back at me, and we shared a silent moment of pant-shitting realisation that this could well and truly fuck up an awful lot of hard work.

Thankfully, it didn’t. We never heard anything about it again and we
nailed the contract. I didn't give a shit about Beverley Hills Cop, but alot of people's jobs rested on the contract going through.

We went back to the office, gathered up our stuff, tried to get the damn thing off Beverly Hills Cop’s hand, found it had actually melted a bit and fused onto his skin, and then decided to head straight back to London so he could have a word with the bosses daughter and try and head off any problems: he'd get rid of the damn thing back at his place.

The Brighton peeps could hardly contain themselves at the sight of this prick striding out the office with his briefcase in one hand, suited and booted, and this fucking object attached to the other. Even as we closed the door we heard the sporadic outbreak of laughter. Beverely Hills Cop fumed, I smiled broadly back at him:

"Just a bit of harmless fun, eh?"

We walked over to his car in silence.

"Well," I said as we clambered into the motor - he had to drive on account of me being a thick twat who'd never learned how. "Maybe you should think twice before using superglue yourself in future..."

He didn't respond, he sat in fuming silence all the way back. He was angry as fuck and scared we'd loose the contract.

But not as scared as me.

Travelling in a turbo-injection company car driven by an angry sales rep in a hurry who's got an eighteen inch dayglo pink dildo glued to his steering wheel hand is, to put it bluntly,

absolutely

fucking

terrifying...

(And you should've seen some of the looks we got from people in other cars on the way. The sight of a man driving, obviously fuming, holding a HUGE bright pink plastic penis, sat next to another man in the passenger seat who was almost in tears must've led to some interesting conversations and lots of jumping to the wrong conclusions that day speeding up the northbound carriageway of the M23)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:06, 11 replies)

T'riff
Cheers bud
(TheColonel, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:27, closed)

Ha ha!
Wonderfull stuff superglue.
(Fredz A graveyard of hopes, a dump of ambition, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:29, closed)

Thanks
for the laughs, Spanks - need um this week!
(Grrrrr Tigers, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:51, closed)

Fuckin
great work. You shouldn't be able to purchase superglue if you're a cunt. Simple as that. Thanks for lightening the mood. #click#
(Lizard King, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:53, closed)

yayy the QTOW is saved
Cock power!
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:54, closed)

I don't care if this is Grade A, 5 star, Premium Bullshit
But I doubt another payoff like that is going to turn up this week!

*click*
( Mr.Ons knows you can hear him, Earthmen., Thu 14 May 2009, 13:02, closed)

hehe
very funny. I did actually have an idea what was attached to his hand about halfway through this story :)
(scotsbloke, Thu 14 May 2009, 13:08, closed)

maybe it's reading Spanky's stuff
but the second he said there was something on his desk, I knew what it was going to be.


That or I'm just filtyh minded
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Thu 14 May 2009, 13:53, closed)

.
Christ, I hope to god this is a true story.
(Gru being trolled since 1998, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:49, closed)

This needs to be true.
*click*
( Maladicta, Thu 14 May 2009, 19:19, closed)

Once again, spanky rides to the rescue.
...and takes off the GRIM.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 14 May 2009, 22:26, closed)