Comedy Gold
I had all the usual ambitions as a child; footballer, astronaut, milkshake tester, professional strip poker player, being Mr. T, sex pest, etc. But once you get a little older your aims tend to move a smidge lower. Therefore by the age of about twelve all I really wanted was a job that made me laugh. Now this might seem a ludicrous aim but bugger me if I haven't managed it! I work for the NHS and can get my grubby little mitts on millions upon millions of prescriptions. Prescriptions aren't funny, I hear you say. Au contraire..... It started when I was asked to pull the history of a patient. Slight humour was derived from him being called Percival Clutterbuck, gigantic humour was derived from him being prescribed a drug called Human Mixtard. This got my childish little mind working; what I presumed was a dull as hell clerical job had suddenly opened up into the world of hilarious names. I therefore give you the list of my current favourites, all completely true.

Other than the aforementioned Mr. Clutterbuck, my favourite patients so far are Abdool Pooloo (parents were clearly enamoured with the letter 'o'), Albano Alfonso Bra's (I swear the apostrophe is part of his name, not added by me), suspected visitor to deedpoll Countess Magenta Devil, and winner of the award for most hopefully making their child sound cosmopolitan and failing, Sergio Guiseppe Smith.

But the true hilarity comes from the doctors themselves. Deep breath now. There are so many Dr. D'eath's it's got a little boring now, Dr. Killingback is much funnier although less worrying than Dr. Godbehere. Not as good as Dr. Doodoo but mildly better than Dr. Mycock. There are several Dr. Shipman's all cursing their luck now they can never apply for that promotion to the geriatric department they had their heart set on but at least they get taken more seriously than Dr. Pepper. Probably more than Dr. Kaz Fuks too. Dr. Bumbra must be used to barely covered sniggering as must Drs. Cakebread, Beaver, Hooker and the outstandingly named Dr. Craig-McFeely. I can only imagine the annoyance of standing in a crowd on fireworks night for Dr. Oo. All the nerds I know wish their name was as cool as Dr. Stawarz but I'm more jealous of Dr. Bigwood. There's definitely some sort of compulsion for people with penis related names to go into the medical profession too. Just ask. Dr. A. Dick. Or Dr. Acellam-O'Dong. Or Dr. C. Cocks. Or, my second ever favourite, Dr. Weadick. Sir, I salute you! You poor, poor sod. And I would ask everyone to join me in a quick prayer that there is never a boy born to the unfortunately monikered Dr. Cordelia Feuchtwang.

Ambition? Achieved.

Edit: God must read b3ta! Just today I walked into work to find a message waiting for me to call Accounts Officer Mr. Cock! Sadly I bottled it when the phone was answered and asked if Derek was there.

AND I forgot to mention Dr. Bottery!
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Thu 29 Mar 2007, 21:43, Reply)

FINISHING SCHOOL...
When I were a little lad we had an activity one afternoon. Write a short essay on what you want to do when you finish school. I think I misunderstood the question.

Amidst the stories of vets and firemen, my story stood out.

When I finish school I want to go home, eat some cereal and watch television. I want to watch Inspector Gadget, and then Dr. Who with my dad and Brother.

Strangely enough, I have finally acheived this career objective.
(lessmiserable, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 12:26, Reply)

coincidental!!
I too longed to be famous for potions and chemicals and such like.

This all began as I closed my copy of Roald Dahls 'Georges marvellous medicine' proclaiming it to be a great read and I was off upstairs to do some 'research' into my new found aim in life.

I spent a few hours putteng EVERY BOTTLE OF EVERYTHING in the house IN THE BATH and mixing it around using Unstablemums besterest wooden spoon.

Things went wrong thusly,

*Unstablemum had to unscrew the lock on the bathroom door as I had passed out due to the noxious fumes, twatting my head on the sink in the process.

*Concussion ensued.

*The bath was stained a lovely delicate blue.

*I had no pocket money for WEEKS.

*The bathroom took months before it smelt normal, the fumes having infiltrated the carpet and the wallpaper.

I never mixed anything again.
Till I found alcohol.
(UnstableDan Bah, Humbug! ooooh, humbugs, nyom!, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 14:17, Reply)

Arsonist
Not me, my kids.

He's 4, says he wants to be a Fireman when he grows up.

She's 5, says she wants to be "one of those people that starts fires"

And Arsonist? Yes.

It escalates to the gruesome...

He says he'll put out her fires.
She says she'll set fire to him.
Undaunted, he says he'll wear fireproof clothes.
She thinks, says she'll lift them up and set fire to him inside them...

That's my daughter, that is. She's six now and wants to be an artist, but my money's still on arson.

First post! Yay!
(sminkyminky, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 15:02, Reply)

Tramp
Unstabledan's message below reminded me of being outside WH Smith with a few friends when we were about 14.

A tramp suddenly lunged from a bush with his cock hanging out, and did a little dance while he blew through a harmonica.

As we stood in stunned silence he asked for a pound and then said "look lads, honestly, I know it looks like a romantic lifestyle but it has its downsides. If you can, go for the 9-5".

No shit!
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 4 Apr 2007, 11:21, Reply)

bloody hell b3ta
just did an interest calculation online and saved it onto client folder as a word screendump because there was no print option.

once you've saved it to the client folder, there is no deleting it.

so to my horror, now i've gone back into the client folder to print it out, i must have had b3ta in the background. nice and clearly, behind the calculation window, is a huge grey box screaming about DISEASED FANNIES.

it was never my childhood ambition to be sacked for saving indelible scat on my clients' soft data....................
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 3 Apr 2007, 17:05, Reply)

I wanted to be a musketeer.
It was a time when those with old films with Michael York and Oliver Reed played on TV frequently on Saturday mornings. They made life look great. A non stop circus of almost playful swordfights, confrontation with evil men from the church, easy heroism, large jugs of red wine and plenty of buxom women with few morals. Obviously, I would need to train to achieve my goal and earn my frilly shirt and sword.

Picture a nine year old with very little co-ordination skills practising all the things I thought was important to be a musketeer.

Swordskills: Me with a bamboo cane against the trees. They never fell, but by gosh, did they get some feeble, whippy punishment.

Swinging from things: In all the films, it appeard any fight would be in a stalemate until at least one of the good guys had dramatically swung from something across the area of combat, knocking over a good number of baddies. One peice of frayed, discarded tow-rope, tied to a nearby tree/fencing opponent later and I was swinging (obviously in the orginal sense of the word)like a bamboo carrying Tarzan.

The wine drinking was practised with Ribena, and I would have to wait a painful amount of years before my first experience with a willing big boobed woman.

I didn't realise at the time, due to the English accents in the film, that I wasn't really French enough to be a musketeer, a thin sword was no real opposition to a modern gun in a combat situation, a camp frilly shirt and boots that borderd transvestism wouldn't act as effective body armour and I was about 400 years too late.

Oh well, fun while it lasted.

Click 'I Like This' if you still think that bastard Cardinal Richilieu needs to be taught a lesson.
( sir_spicious2000 Crap I've watched: www.filmplop.blogspot.com/, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 14:20, Reply)

Pre-school sex offender thought crime wrongness
At the age of five - spurred on by the thought of the bikini-clad blonde who was my swimming instructor - I had the singular career ambition of spending my life kidnapping and tying up a number of MILFs from our housing estate, forcing them into skimpy bikinis and hiding them behind the bins at the end of our garden.

My plan involved riding up behind the intended victim on my tricycle (I wasn't quite up to two wheels at this stage), grabbing them, and forcing them to do my evil bidding.

Quite how this was to be achieved is beyond me even to this day, but I even went through a "dry run" one day after playgroup, and fell off my trike trying to perfect my 'grab' technique. Bleeding all over the place, I sort of lost interest in the whole idea.

Luckily, I grew up and realised you could see ladies' wobbly parts just by asking them nicely. Otherwise, I'd probably be sharing a room with Peter Sutcliffe by now, getting bummed senseless by the warders.

Clicking on I Like This! will help pay for my therapy.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 12:52, Reply)

Dancer...
Not me - daughter.

She's six, loves ballet - talking about what she wants to do when she grows up, I say to her she could always become a professional ballerina. They actually get paid to do ballet, perform in front of audiences and that's their job.

Cracking. She loves the idea. Will pay more attention in ballet class.

In the car later on, all of us. Little voice from the back:

"Mum, I know what I want to be when I grow up!'
"What's that love?"
"Um.. I can't remember the word. One of those girls that dances up on the stage and people give them money"

I got a "look", but we later agreed (after the kids were in bed), that it wasn't such a bad career, and would certainly pay for Uni...
(sminkyminky, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 12:23, Reply)

Where To Start?
As a nipper, the only thing I ever wanted to do was join the army. It seemed the only way to escape the fate of most of the rest of my generation in the North East of going down the pit and being a miner.

So I joined the army and hated it. I had, and still have, an inbuilt inability to respond to authority.

"Right lads. We're going to run 10 miles across this moor and crawl through a swamp" says our Rodney (officer)

"Why?" says me. "It's February, it's fucking freezing and you want me to crawl through a swamp when there's a perfectly good road that goes around it - you're off your trolley"

Rodney and sarge go postal, I go to the guardhouse and am severely beasted for two weeks. It was after that that I decided that the army wasn't for me and spent the next few months trying to get out. That wasn't as easy as the recruiting guys told me. Legally, as I was under 18, they had to let me out on demand. Practically, as I had very high scores on my test they did their damdest to keep me in as they had me pegged as a technician and they didn't have many of them.

They claimed that they couldn't find certain forms that needed to be signed before letting me out. They put all sorts of barriers in my way and they constantly badgered me to change my mind and stay in.

Eventually I got sick of this and decided that if they couldn't find my records then I wasn't in the army anyway and fucked off home. AWOL is the technical term. After a few days the military police turned up and escorted me back to base and locked me up again. Then they tried to make me do lots of totally pointless tasks as punishment. Amongst them was:

Brushing up all the gravel on the parade ground into a big pile and then taking it by wheelbarrow to the shower block and washing it clean before spreading it back on the parade ground.

Digging out the rifle range's sandpits and separating out all of the spent ammo.

Clearing out the officers pond by standing waste deep in freezing water and dragging out the shit on the bottom with a rake.

And similar tasks.

Eventually I lost it and told them to go fuck themselves and refused to soldier. I sat in my wee cell in the guard room and swore at anyone who tried to make me do anything. After a few days of this they seemed to realise that I wasn't going to change my mind and knuckle down to army life and the miraculously found my records and, after a lot of form filling, let me out.

Childhood ambitions? Fuck 'em.....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sat 31 Mar 2007, 11:44, Reply)

April during my
freshers year at my second university was a good one. Bright sunshine, birds in the trees. I lived with a bunch of guys who, like me, were back at uni in their early 20s.

One fine afternoon we were gathered in the kitchen. It was 1999, so 'my name is' by Eminem was on the radio or something. The TV was on, it was a little before one. I swigged on a mug of coffee while reading a shitty tabloid.

Moira Stuart announced that it was April the 20th, and that it was the one o'clock news. The lead story was the massacre in Colombine, Colorado. A shocked silence fell over the room.

"My God", remarked one
"Terrible", gasped another.

I looked up from my paper briefly, shrugged and said simply,

"I always wanted to do that when I was at school"

In a tone of voice one of my companions would describe as 'sounding as if I'd said something normal'.
( cs1ca, Sat 31 Mar 2007, 3:27, Reply)

carry on spying
i wanted to be a spy for a brief period as a small child. unfortunately i broke the first rule by telling my mother. who pissed herself laughing and asked me why.

"because i can walk quietly," was my inspired response. 2 seconds before tiptoeing straight over the top step and crashing down the stairs like a herd of randy elephants.

ah well, trench coats look like flasher macs anyway.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 14:40, Reply)

Jesus
When I was about 7 I asked if I could play Jesus in the school play. (I'd heard bits about him and thought he was pretty cool, healing the dead - water to wine etc, etc.) Unfortunately it was the nativity play and a teacher pointed out to me that he was only a baby at this point. For some reason I got really angry with her and decided that I would become Jesus for real, just to show her!
It got to dinner time and I strutted up to the table, surrounded by 7 year old friends, held out my hand to turn the water into wine... Oops! I knocked the water jug all over, got told off, cried and never stayed school dinners ever again. Fortunately I never articulated my messianist desires and now work as a designer from home, where I am able to oppress my cats into believing I am the one true god of little plastic pouches filled with meaty goodness.
The end.
(This is my first post. "So what, stop banging on about it!". Ok, but I only mentioned it once.)

Edit...
Oh yeah, just remembered. My brother wanted to be Dogtanian so he could shaft Juliet. He'd write letters to himself pretending to be her and stick them through our letter box. I reminded him (and all his mates) about this for years, I feel a bit bad about it now.
(CloneD, Sat 31 Mar 2007, 3:19, Reply)

I grew up wanting to be a Rubbish Wrestler
I really wanted to be a wreslter in the early 90's. Basically, my mate got Sky, and I was transfixed by musclebound men in swimming trunks (in a non-gay way).

However, as a child, I was scared of getting hurt.

The week later, we got sky, and we were watching wrestling. Anyway I was just saying to my mum and dad "I WANNA BE A WRESTLER!", jumping on and off the couch, that kind of thing that a sugared up child of the 90's would do.

However, something happened that made me give up the dream.

The Undertaker locked The Ultimate Warrior in a coffin, and they had to break him out, give him cpr, and attached him to a defribilator. All very scary stuff for a 7 year old, who didn't know it was fake.

I immediately thought that by saying repeatedly "I WANNA BE A WRESTLER", I had already made my career plans, I started saying "I DON'T WANNA BE A WRESTLER! I DON'T WANT TO BE A WRESTLER!", crying, and being a very irrational 7 year old. Even after my mum shattered the illusion that The Undertaker probably owns a car, is called 'Brad', and is actually a very nice man down the shops, I was not convinced.

So I thought of a way out.

I would be tag team champions with Hulk Hogan.

Simple! He likes fighting, he can do all of it, I'd just stand in the corner, smiling gormlessly. We'd never lose.

I'm 23, work in IT, and yet to be Tag Champion.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 12:28, Reply)

Get thee to a child psychologist
My best mate's four year old niece came running over to me at a family do the other day and proudly announced, "Rakky, when I grow up, I want to be a scientist, just like you." Aw, bless, I thought, that's sweet. So I turned to her slightly older sister and said "And what do you want to be?" "A butterfly princess" was the response. Kids, eh, little cherubs and no mistake.

I noticed their cousin skulking behind a plant pot, so I called out "Alex, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

She fixed me with a malevolent look and replied...

"A terrorist."

Then returned to pulling the heads off the petunias.

Well, at least she's got ambition.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 4 Apr 2007, 12:39, Reply)

After school special
There used to be these commercials on, where a little girl would say something like, "I want to be a ballerina when I grow up!" Then it would show a hobo-type person, dressed up in poor clothes with messed up hair, and a voice-over would then remark, "No one ever says, 'I want to be a junkie when I grow up.'" Remember those commercials? Well I do. Anyway, I remember seeing one such commercial at the age of five, eating cheerios or some shit in my living room. It seemed to me that if no one wanted to be a junkie, well, there wouldn't be much competition in that particular job market. So I instantly exclaimed, "I do! I want to be a junkie when I grow up!" I'd never seen my mom panic like that before or since.
(BrainSurgerysFun, Sat 31 Mar 2007, 22:34, Reply)

It's ok to laugh.
I remember vividly, aged 4, wanting to grow up with white skin so that I wouldn't get called Paki and Nignog. Nowadays I not only get called Paki, I am also called Coconut by other asians.
(bonjelafiend, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 20:05, Reply)

a Van de Graaff generator owner
I always wanted a Van de Graaff generator. The thing that made your hand stand on end in physics class. At 16 after leaving school and a couple of years after having seen a working Van de Graaff generator and the technical aspects of how it really worked a distant memory, me and a friend thought we would re-live our child-hood and make our own Van de Graaff in his bedroom at his Mum's house. We were stoned.

We took a large rubics cube and a small rubics cube, covered them in silver foil and forced 2 glass rods into each of them. We pushed them into a cardboard box so they stood about an inch apart. We took apart the cable from a bedside lamp and attached one wire each to the foil on each rubics cube. We plugged it into the wall.

Nothing happened. There was no static electricity jumping between the two globes as we had seen in class.
We pushed the two rods closer and closer waiting for static. Closer and closer but no spark.
Holding one rod each we then touched them together....
HUGE FLASH. Major Bang! All the lights go out and we're left in the dark. We blew all the fuses.
Lots of screaming from downstairs, lights come back on, we push the apparatus under the bed and friends Mum comes bursting into the room screaming "What the fucking hell are you two doing!?!?!"
As is the teenage way, we deny everything and sit innocently on the bed covering scorch marks and ignoring the lingering smoke. We had huge blots on our eyes for hours because we were about 6 inches from the flash.

Method:
a couple of spliffs
1x large Rubics cube
1x small Rubics cube
tin foil
2x glass rods (or anything non-conducting)
an electrical cord with a plug on the end
an ounce of stupidity

Results:
Blindness and near death.

Conclusion:
get a job in IT support where you get paid for blowing things up.
(twistngo, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 13:04, Reply)

Childhood ambition....
....to get my hands in Sharon Jones' knickers.

Failed miserably.

Click 'I like this' if you too have suffered from unrequited lust.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 30 Mar 2007, 11:43, Reply)

My daughter...
told the careers adviser that she wants to be an International Assassin as it is well paid, you get to travel all over the world and you don't have to work very often.
Rather than encourage her and offer advice on how she could progress into her chosen career, which is what the careers adviser is supposed to be there for, he reported her to the police as a potential terrorist threat.
The (rather senior) police officer who was, much to his amusement, sent to interview her advised the careers adviser that perhaps he was in the wrong job.
(Alf N. Safety - refusing you planning permission on, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 9:46, Reply)

Not being a werewolf
My childhood ambition was to not be a werewolf.

On a long car journey back from our static caravan in Wales, my mother informed her young son that he had not been christened.

Having just heard that from one of the scallywags on the caravan park that people who are werewolves will only turn into werewolves (a) if they had not been christened and (b) when they reached 18, I naturally assumed that on reaching 18 everyone who had not been christened would turn into a werewolf.

It took several hours to convince me to stop blubbing about what life had in store for me and several years for the nagging fear to finally leave me. It gets mentioned several times - on growing my first bit of bumfluff, "must be the first signs of 'the change'" and of course on my 18th birthday.

Not content on that I was later informed that I couldn't be my preferred choice of non-lycanthropic professional, a pilot. Nor my second, a soldier. Nor my third, a sailor. Apparently I have very poor colour vision...just like wolves...I support Wolves...I am from woleverhampton... its all beginning to fit. Oh no...
(Gusofnavarone always makes a map of france from sarnies, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 13:20, Reply)

I wanted to be a dustbin man
Crappy job, but only one day a week
( alnapp B3ta? Oh I just remembered about that and posted @, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 12:11, Reply)

A Friend Of A Friend
Got a double first at Oxford in maths. Then he took a job as receptionist in a crappy company on an industrial estate in the middle of nowhere. All of his friends and relations started bugging him.

"But you've a double first in maths from Oxford! You can write your own ticket, name your own salary. You can have almost any job in the world. What are you doing wasting your life as a receptionist for?"

His excuse is a classic.

"Frankly lads I've just got fuck-all ambition...."

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 1 Apr 2007, 17:53, Reply)

It's the Archaeologists Life For Me...not.
Condensed from www.stevedix.de/blog/349

1982. Head set awhirl by "Raiders of the Lost Ark" in Lyme Regis Cinema, and a sugar-high from consuming far too many Slush-Puppies for my own good, I decide I want to be an Archaeologist.

Because Archaeology looks fun. Archaeology, as peddled by Steven Spielberg, seems to be one long round of exotic climates, mysterious tombs, ancient puzzles and stuff, with only the occasional breathless pause to write up the whole thing for "Archaeology Today", and, let's be frank, shagging sexy archaeology-student chicks.

Wrong, little archaeologist manqué.

The truth is Archaeology is badly-paid, hard work, 90% of which consists of filling-in applications for grants to study something, which are often rejected by people who are worse-educated but better-paid, and then hard, long, back-breaking work carefully brushing the compacted dirt away from something, just in case it might be an important Roman artifact and not an old bone buried by one of the local dogs. It's a job with many disappointments, such as finding that some amateur treasure-hunter has, a week before you finally get to your planned dig site, gone over it with a magnetometer, dug up a couple of coins and then boasted about it in the pub afterward, so that next day your carefully-planned dig has been turned into a bombsite by treasure-crazed locals. Rarely do you get to uncover a pristine ancient Tomb, often you spend years arguing over the significance of a few potsherds in the letters page of the International Archaeological press, and the only Archaeologists equipped with a bull-whip are very, very strange people indeed, whom it's best not to share a tent with.

So remember, kids. For every one of you that loves "Raiders of the Lost Ark", there's a bitter, twisted archaeologist who HATES SPIELBERG'S GUTS.

Length? Yes, but it was longer in the original Sanskrit.

EDIT : There seems to be more than one of us disappointed Indy fans round here. Class action against Harrison Ford, anyone?
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 11:53, Reply)

The Hungry Caterpillar Ballet
At the age of six, my lifetime ambition, like many other girls, was to be a prima ballerina.

This dream was brought to an abrupt and rather cruel end when the ballet school junior section put on The Hungry Caterpillar, as in the children's book with the caterpillar who eats numerous different types of food.

I was cast as the sausage.

Apparently I asked my mother at the end why all the other mummies were laughing at me.
(hakkety, Tue 3 Apr 2007, 13:03, Reply)

Adopted.
I remember when I was rather young and the teacher asking the class, "If you could be one thing in the entire world, what would it be?"

I began thinking and decided that I wanted to be a princess. However, being a bright little child I realised that I couldn't be as my family weren't royalty. Although, that problem would be easly solved if my parents weren't actually my biological parents.

Teacher: What about you, Miss Elephants?
Me: Adopted.

My mother got some vicious looks when she came to pick me up at three o'clock.
( Fluffy elephants, Sun 1 Apr 2007, 22:57, Reply)

oh god
and when my half-brother, who is quite a lot older than i am, went off to uni in ireland (very late 1980s, so half the lectures were missed due to bombs etc), he wanted to join the RAF.

i told everyone he wanted to join the IRA. i didn't know there was a difference!

he went ballistic when he found out.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 16:01, Reply)

What I didn't want to be...
At the age of 5, I was afraid of going out in the sun in case I turned into a black man.
(rhyswynne - on every social network mullarkey known to man, Fri 30 Mar 2007, 8:07, Reply)

Hmmm
Upon reflection I've spent the last 27 years reading the small ads just in case someone prints "Spitfire Pilot wanted, no experience necessary as full training given, fur lined leather jacket, flying helmet and goggles provided, applicant must grow amusing moustache".

Unfortunately for some reason I've been unsuccessful in my search although I haven't yet given up hope. The full wing commander 'tache is proving a challenge
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 29 Mar 2007, 17:27, Reply)

I wanted to be.....
a LUMBERJACK!
( Spunk Murphy Tchaikovsky is a synonym for fanny, apparently, Thu 29 Mar 2007, 15:54, Reply)