Trapped
Staying at an old hotel, it was observed that the sash window in my room had, apart from the usual, the following two additional properties:
One could climb through it on to the top of the fire escape stairs.
A bolt which locked it with an opening approximately equal in width to the thickness of the average human adult male neck.

A plan was hatched.

Dare came and knocked on my door, I let him in. I urged him to "take in the view" from the top of the fire escape via the open window which he did.

You have to know your victim and with Dare being a sparks by trade, I invented the perfect bait. "Look at that dodgy junction box down there, that doesn't look very safe" I said. He popped his head inside the window and asked "Where?". "Down there by the floor" I said pointing at the bottom of the wall directly beneath the window. Dare craned his neck downwards to get a better view and before he could say "you fucker" I had pulled down the window and bolted it, he was trapped.

Dare struggled. He tried to push the window up. He tried to pull his head through the window. He could do neither. He was annoyed. He started to threaten me. I pointed out to him that he wasn't in any position to be making threats seeing as he was standing on a fire escape with his head stuck in a window. His threats changed from "I'm going to..." to "When I get out of here, I'm going to...". "In which case you must stay there FOREVER" I told him.

I made him promise not to do anything in retaliation if I let him go, can't remember the exact words but something like "repeat after me, the following":
"I Dare"
"Do solemly swear"
"That I will not"
"Try to exact revenge"
"In any way shape or form"
"On stopmeandslapme"
"In retaliation"
"For him locking me in this window"
"And that"
"I will make him a nice cup of tea"
"And give him the free biscuits from my room"

And he did.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:18, 2 replies)

Oversized ring of fire
Having a badly inflamed knee meant carrying deep heat every day, and frequently clearing off to the office toilets to apply it.

Seemed rude not to make a habit of smearing a load around the bog seat while I was in there. On more than one day during this period I managed to anoint all 6 traps with the stuff.
(fixit, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:16, Reply)

Diggerland
I'm going to Diggerland in October.

I've actually had a sleepless night, overcome by the sheer awesomeness of being able to actually drive a JCB and do some digging.
(Le Misanthrope last procrastinated on, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:10, 3 replies)

The View From Above
I work in the construction industry, there are a few perks, liquid lunches, knocking off early with the pretense of 'going to carry out a site visit' and the joy of afternoons spent oggling attractive ladies from first floor scaffolding.

Occasionally i'm entrusted with designing something, I was recently asked to redesign a service yard. Keen to impress I read up on required passing distances and the turning circle of an artic lorry etc, I then crafted my 'excellent' design. Only the very second I'd finished drawing it up I realised that what I had infact designed was a massive cock and balls threaded between the backs of the shops either side of the yard.

I've put it in for planning permission, give me six weeks and i'll tell you how it went.

img.photobucket.com/albums/v449/Psymon_Spark/qotwpiccy.jpg

Road names changed to protect the innocent my job
(Psymon_Spark Jesus Saves! The rest of you take 4d6 damage, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:04, 8 replies)

I need suggestions...
I have just, in the past ten minutes, learnt something very fucked up.

My Dad has run a pub for nearly three years. It has been my local my whole life and I work there, as does my boyfriend and lots of my friends. We have worked extremely hard to turn the pub around and trade has doubled, due to us putting live music on and generally working our arses off. When the smoking ban came in, my Dad put up a massive heated smoking shelter out of his own pocket, because the stupid fucks from Enterprise Inns wouldn't help with anything. The whole pub needed re-wiring. Despite this being in their remit, Enterprise Fucking Inns wouldn't give us a penny.

Now, the cunts were supposed to be arranging a rent review in January, but were dicking us about until a couple of months ago, when they decided to demand a ridiculous increase in rent. There was a meeting today, where they said they wouldn't reduce it, so if the arbitration doesn't go our way, we're out in 6 months. How big an increase? 80%.

Yep. 80 FUCKING PER CENT.

In the past three years, we've turned the pub completely around. It's a great pub where you can come in with no chance of shit, because WE'VE systematically weeded out all the cunts and barred them. If anyone in the village needs anything, they know they can come in and someone will help them out. We have paid the best part of £600,000 to Enterprise Inns in the past 3 years.

Now, we're going to have to give it up, and Enterprise will just put some know-nothing twats in, who everyone will hate. We won't have anywhere else to go. In Otley, which is near us, there's about 7 pubs. About 4 of them are Enterprise pubs. ALL 4 are up for rent, because of this shit. They want us to pay them rent and beer, and then they give us nothing and then try to fuck us.

Wanna know who I blame? Ted Tuppen. The head of the whole fucking shitty operation. Fuck him. His company are billions in debt, so whilst commercial rents have REDUCED over the past 5 years, he wants us to pay him 80% more to bail his fucking arse out.

I repeat, FUCK TED TUPPEN.

Back to the topic, I want to do something to really fuck with Enterprise. Anonymously, of course, but also as childish as possible.

So, suggestions welcome.

Sorry for length, lack of funnies, excess of swearing and non-topicness, but I needed to get this out of my system.

EDIT: I will post from my massive list of childish stuff I do when I calm down. Pwomise!

EDIT: Thanks for all the messages of support guys. I spent a good couple of hours reading the lease the other day (law student), and think we might have a good case for arbitration due to a couple of clauses about rent reviews which they seem to have forgotten. If it doesn't go away, I will bear all your suggestions in mind. My dad has already said we're pulling up the flags from both beer gardens, all the railings and, if we can't dismantle the smoking shelter, we're burning it.
(BelladonnaAnodyne Melissa's gonna wet herself, I swear..., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:02, 23 replies)

First, first, first???? ... um First - awwwww <sob, sob>
This?
(Biff..., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:02, 1 reply)

i think i might be busy this week
lets start with a toasty pea - original Q was 'pointless experiments'...

'Improvised Flamethrower'

I’m quite sure any rational bloke would insist when it comes to desirable gadgets an improvised flamethrower is right up there with a Jessica Alba Android and TeleportationTrousers, therefore not technically a pointless experiment. However, whilst pyrotechnical experimentation should always be nurtured in the young and reckless, the choice of firing range in this instance may be at best filed as ill advised.

Many moons ago I worked for a fairly rubbish ‘New Media’ company with a lot of bored, disillusioned staff. Jinks were always high. We had a set of steak knives in the kitchen, not sure why but they were perfectly balanced for my burgeoning knife-throwing act – until that is the semi-psychotic boss (same bloated buffoon as in my ‘Only 14 Hours to Bristol’ post) raged into the studio during an all staff meeting demanding to know who had been using his office door for 'bloody knife throwing practice'. Cue blank looks all round. I did find it indicative of our work ethic that he immediately (and rightly) assumed knife throwing had occurred. Other experiments included creeping up behind people on the phone and liberally wrapping parcel tape round their head – securing the phone to their noggin (this works best when they are also resting their chin on their free hand so you can cocoon that too) thus ensuring they must continue an (albeit muffled) conversation with Mr Self Important Client Tosser. Other japes involved cutting the corners off large boxes then arranging the boxes as crumple zones for stunt man ‘death’ leaps from filing cabinets. Using the wet & dry vac to hoover up peoples coffee from their mugs in one greedy slurrrrp always got a response too - usually ‘for fucks sake Spimf, fuck off will you, you fucking idiot’. Shooting out the bulbs on the desk lamps across the room with an air pistol tended to unsettle/enrage the occupant of the workstation a fair bit as well. So you get the picture – a committed and focused bunch of highly trained imbeciles.

One particularly slow day I spotted some large heavy-duty cardboard tubes lying innocently, yet temptingly in a quiet corner. Like any right minded person I immediately thought: Hmmm… Big Arnie-style RPG launcher! I chose a fine sturdy tube about 4 foot long with a plastic end cap then selected a slightly thinner tube that would fit inside. A great big wodge of bog roll was taped around one end to make a sung and effective plunger for my makeshift munitions. Initially, this was simply ‘plunged’ to make the plastic end cap fly off with a satisfyingly low frequency ‘THHHONK’. Put simply i had fashioned the worlds biggest pop gun.

Soon my bodged bazooka sprouted a shoulder strap, side handle, plunger grip and nicely weighted cardboard ‘RPG’. Menacingly, I strutted around the studio attempting to shoot large things off high shelves and generally breaking stuff. With it's Kappa board fins and conical nose my ‘RPG’ flew surprisingly well. Boredom however, is a relentless staggering zombie that never lags far behind dear Spimfy. It was then I spotted the lighter fluid we used to clean Spraymount off stuff. I think I may have heard a small internal ‘ping’ as a little light bulb fluoresced in my head. A fist sized ball of bog roll was given a liberal soaking, lit to a near invisible Sambuca style blue flame by a willing assistant then rammed down the barrel with a broom handle, the plastic end cap was then popped on to provide a bit of back pressure. Clearly the restricted amount of air inside would only last so long, so launch had to be hasty. This however meant aim was a secondary consideration. I plunged the fucker with aplomb.

Fuck. Me.

It would be no exaggeration to say ‘a fucking great big fireball’ streaked from the end of my cardboard contraption with quite spectacular results. The pressure combined with a sudden rush of nice oxygen rich air produced angry red and yellow flames. It made a fantastic roaring noise as it soared across the studio trailing acrid black smoke and a deep thud as it slammed into the window recess resulting in an even bigger ball of flames. HOORAY! Everyone whooped and cheered - the few sensible ones (developers mainly) standing well back, shaking their heads and muttering about inadequate fire exits. The flames rapidly subsided to a little smouldering clump of blackened bog roll - the hilarity waned in harmony. Then, quite unexpectedly... Whoosh! The fabric window blinds went up in flames – big style, eagerly assisted by the dust and cobwebs around the ancient window frame (did I mention our office was a converted mill in a World Heritage site? Probably best not to). Dust and cobwebs and dead spiders burn like a motherfucker by the way, which I discovered while trying to ‘clean’ my garage with a blowtorch once.

In a blind panic I belted across the room and (with some difficulty) yanked the burning blinds down and proceeded to stamp on them with some considerable urgency. This had an immediate effect; being that it set fire to my shoes. I can honestly say the spectacle of me rain dancing with flaming feet did seem to lift the mood for a while.

A couple of days later the (increasingly psychotic) boss was eyeing the scorched, melted patch of fuzzy office flooring and looking for answers. Blank faces again. Good job he didn’t turn round to see the hastily installed non-matching window blinds stolen from another department.

length? fully extended about 5 foot mate.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 17:01, Reply)

South African border visas
Whilst travelling through South Africa crossing into Swaziland and back into SA etc you have to complete a visa document when you leave one country then 20 metres later complete another one to enter the other country.

Among many questions it asks for your occupation, as a backpacker I didn't have one so taking the chance that the officials from each country didn't share information I decided to try out an array of amusing "careers" each differing from the other.

Thus I became; an exotic dancer, a pimp and a ninja assassin.

I don't think they actually checked the visas that closely...
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:58, Reply)

A few miles up the road from where I live
Is a village called Shilbottle. It is signposted from the A1 and someone, years ago, put a little cross bar on the 'l'.

It still makes me giggle when I drive past. I'm pushing 40.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:54, 11 replies)

Time for a pearoast: Scientists are mature, thoughtful people, right?
...no, they're really not.

I've spent most of my PhD working with a post-doc who isn't technically my supervisor - more of a mentor - on upgrading the instrument which I'll be using.

Last year, this involved replacing the thermistors - small temperature probes, which had to be inserted into the appropriate holes in the black-bodies, with the aid of a substance known as Electrolube.

The spectacle of a PhD student and a 30-something post-doc bursting into fits of childish laughter provides a strong correlation in favour of us never growing up.

I suppose a length joke would be appropriate to this qotw...
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:51, 2 replies)

Whilst booking a visa to go somewhere...
I was offered the option of single or double entry...

I had to hang up from laughing too much!
(The Kwyjibo A big, dumb, balding North American ape., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:46, Reply)

Severely pissed off
fighting through the hoards of tourists and shoplifters in Primarks on Oxford Street, my girlfriend asks the shop assistant:

"Excuse me, do you have any brown dressing gowns?" she turns to me as I stand sheepishly behind her. We'd had a row about me walking round in Le Buff at home; what with the terrible unintentional flashing incident involving the Japanese couple next door who saw my meat and two veg while they were doing their gardening. I had to get a dressing gown. I was on an official warning.

The tired, bored shop assistant starts: "We've got blue, green, red-"

My girlfriend, Liz, tired and irritable from a hard days work raises her hand: "Sorry, has to be brown," then she turns to me and says: "Tell the lady why it has to be brown, go on!"

And I mumble: "So I can pretend to be Obi Wan Kenobi when I'm doing the hoovering..."
( SpankyHanky, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:45, 10 replies)

Adding an "I" in the middle of "TO LET" signs
Chortle.
(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, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:43, 2 replies)

An Open Letter
to anybody who has had to catch the bus up via the Bricklayer's Arms roundabout at the top of the New Kent Road.

For the last few years, our first-floor kitchen window has looked out onto this road. Anybody who has been on the top deck of the bus might have casually looked over at said window and seen two fully-grown men pretending to have anal sex up against the fridge as they went past, possibly even whilst one of them had just leant into the fridge to get the milk out.

We apologise for this puerile display, but you may rest assured that we're moving soon and I'm sure the tenants that replace us will be more mature. Or they might be nudists.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:43, 5 replies)

Not sure if childish or just plain wrong
A mate of mine thought it would be hilarious if he dipped his cock (and swirled it about a bit but I can't be positive about that)in my pint and told me about it after I had finished.

I decided to retaliate by gently placing a piece of chewing gum in my crack and keeping it there for a good hour.

Also it was the height of summer and I was getting shit beads (sweat dripping from crack to balls if you didn't know already). I then put the gum back in the packet and giggled whilst he chewed his way through it.

Edit: and yes my ring was extremely minty fresh but I wouldn't recommend airways as they tend to sting.
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:35, Reply)

One day I was walking through
the shopping centre and saw a baby in a pram that had been left outside a shop, so I farted on it as I passed. Man that was fucking hilarious.
(rosstheboss, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:28, 1 reply)

Just this morning
I was perusing Craigslist for free stuff or barter deals, and came across this headline:

SMOKE POLE FOR CROSSBOW (CHESTER)

Apparently he has a gun called a Smoke Pole that he wishes to trade. I suspect that most of the responses he'll get will be from guys looking for something else...

It made me giggle.

EDIT: Just to prove that I didn't make this up: richmond.craigslist.org/bar/1378316880.html
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:28, 1 reply)

On Detachment with An Arse
I spent most of this summer on detachment with a group of scientists who regularly go and measure atmospheric stuff from an aeroplane and are possibly connected with a large body of other scientists, some of whom might possibly do the weather forecast. And overall, it was a good detachment: the instrument on which my supervisor and I worked behaved quite well, the flights were good, the others were good company. Oh, and we were based in Switzerland. Views out of the window during flights were nothing short of Fucking Awesome.

The only drawback was the boss. He was sent out as detachment manager, and I'd heard "stories" about him previously, about him being a bit difficult, perhaps a bit annoying. Now I try to be nice to everybody when I first meet them, especially if I've got to work with them for a month. And whilst he seemed pleasant enough at first, I soon began to understand why the other scientists got so pissed off with him.

For this man was A Complete Arse. I developed a theory that, when Chris Barrie was simultaneously cast in Red Dwarf and The Brittas Empire as Arnold Judas Rimmer and Gordon Brittas respectively, he must have been racking his brains to develop two distinctly different characters who could still be Complete and Total Arsehats. And I think, one night, he went to the pub with his friends and bumped into this Detachment Manager at the bar. Because I do believe that after ten minutes of talking to this bloke, you could pick out just about all the personality traits of both characters.

As a result, people avoided hanging out with him at any cost. If he suggested heading into town to get some lunch, the pilots would usually go with him but all the scientists "already had plans," or "would be a while longer with this," and then would all get together and go somewhere else after he'd cleared off.

I'm not normally this childish. I felt bad doing the same. But having sat next to him the first night we all went out for dinner, I didn't feel bad enough to make me take him up on his invitation.

Towards the end of the detachment, my supervisor and I ended up around a table with him for lunch with a couple of the others. As usual, he decided the best course of action was to regale us with fascinating stories of his travels. This afternoon's location of choice was Eastern Europe.

"And of course, they're great engineers, the Poles."
I looked around. Four or five scientists sat around a table, bored stiff by this fifteen-minute excursus on what a fascinating life he led.
"Yeah, they're good plumbers, too," I quipped. I thought I'd just try and lighten the tone, introduce some gentle humour, anything to reclaim the conversation. My supervisor, however, decided to go one better,
"Good strippers, too," he said, in reference to a Polish-run nudey-bar near his home.
This then descended into the two of us childishly suggesting names for an Eastern European Strip Club, the best of which being "Topleski."

Complete Arse Detachment Manager was less than impressed by our "puerile" humour, we later heard from someone else. Were we being so childish to draw the conversation back to a level at which everyone could participate? Admittedly, the ulterior aim was to stop him talking.

What was certainly childish, however, was the behaviour of all the scientists, myself included, at the detachment dinner. We all convened in one restaurant for dinner. A few people decided that it was imperative that Complete Arse Detachment Manager not make a speech. It had been his first detachment, and a successful detachment, so we knew he would crow about it. ("Of course it was successful; it was in Switzerland," pointed out one of the scientists, "it was always going to be easier than the last one in fucking Borneo.")

So one of them, after the desserts had been round, called upon various people to make speeches. He called upon
The two senior scientists
The pilots
The cabin crew
The core chemistry guy
One of the spectrometry guys
Me (being the lowly PhD understudy and therefore the least important person there)
And managed to string it out until coffee had been round and everybody cleared off. It takes some effort to be that childish. Mr CompleteArse is thought to have turned to the person sat next to him and muttered, "Well, I didn't really need to make a speech..."

Edit: I've just remembered - days off, i.e., when nobody needed to do instrument maintenance and the conditions weren't suitable for flying, were called "Hard-down Days," and were announced clearly as such on the whiteboard in the foyer of the hotel in which we were staying. It only took two strokes of the finger to render this announcement immature and hilarious.
(LongJohnBaldry, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:27, 2 replies)

Michael who?
Me and my four year old cousin say the name Michael Buble to each other and end up in fits of laughter. I'm 25.
(rosstheboss, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:27, 2 replies)

Don't fall asleep in my car....
My ex girlfriend, Emily, and I were travelling home from Brighton on a beautiful Sunday afternoon two years ago. The journey itself was about an hour and a half long, so I thought it very rude of her when she fell asleep about 20 minutes from home, rather than keep me company. Afterall, she was meant to be navigating.

The childish part comes next and may go some of the way to explaining why we are no longer together. I pulled the car over at an angle down a country lane and up slowly in front of a tree so that the bumper of the car was just touching it. Then, I put my head down on the steering wheel, closed my eyes, stuck my tongue out the side of my mouth and sounded the horn.

"Shhiiiiiit! Wake up, wake up!" a rather startled Emily screamed, shaking my shoulders. "We've crashed!"

A broad grin formed across my face and Emily realised what I had done. She didn't speak to me for the rest of the journey.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:27, 5 replies)

Let's BREAK STUFF!
I admit it. I'm an overaged thirteen year old.

I still like cartoons (Phineas and Ferb or Bugs Bunny). I still spend a lot of time playing video games. As an adult, I once moved out of an apartment by the simple expediency of throwing everything I didn't want off a third-story balcony. (Dining table, not so impressive. Console television...much more so.)

But the best part is -- see, I work at an establishment that sells package liquor. And sometimes the wine sits a wee bit too long, and needs to be written off. And by law here in the US, we have to destroy the bottles. Not just throw them away -- destroy them.

So picture, if you will, a 6'4", 300+ lb guy pitching bottles of turned wine into a large metal dumpster, cackling with glee at each little explosion of glass and vinegar.

TOO much fun.
(springjack The King Of Pygmy Marmosets!, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:24, 3 replies)

My bessie-mate is adamant he can't stand celery
"It tastes like headaches and I can't go near the stuff it's so foul..."

So... I've been trying to feed him as much of the stuff as possible by dicing it really finely and putting it into any dinner I think I can get away with. I managed to get a whole stick in the mayonnaise in a sandwich once. He's never picked up on it.
(CptCoatHanger performed his last back-street abortion on, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:21, 5 replies)

Before Man Existed
Is a game me and my brother have played all our lives.

The game can be played anywhere at any time. The game is initiated by somone picking up a wooden or stone object, not metal and proclaiming

'Before man existed' and then starts clubbing the other person with the object. The only rules are that you can only target joints and bones, not soft flesh and must continue a running monologue in the style of a Natural History presenter about how the apes would beat their openents bones with simple weapons throughout the beating.

I am 25, he is 20. We play it everytime we see each other.
(Richard Earl of Cambridge Cruel, Savage, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:21, 6 replies)

Hotwiring shopping trolleys
Picture the scene. Me and the missus have just had a cracking night out at our local rock night dive. We have danced like spectacularly drunken monkeys, quaffed pint after pint of ale and pissed almost exactly the same quantity in the quaint but at the same time mingtastic outside toilets. Now, it’s time to go home with the sound of “Whole Lotta Rosie” ringing in our ears and the smell of stale piss and cigarette smoke lingering just that little bit too long in our nostrils.

Is your preferred mode of transport owing to the general knackered state of Tourette’s hips and back after a night of strutting her stuff on the dancefloor:

a) Walk the mile or so back?
b) Drive because you’ve only had six or seven pints, it’s 2:30 in the morning and of course there won’t be any coppers about?
c) Taxi, or
d) Shopping trolley?

We decided to walk but had got only a couple of hundred metres down the street when I spotted it; a lone Kwik Save shopping trolley, abandoned outside a church and bathed under the glow of the flickering street lamp next to it.

“Get in” I slurred to the missus “I’ll push you home and we’ll drop the trolley at Kwik Save in the morning”. Kwik Save at the time was just along the road from us; so I was being community minded as well as a drunken idiot. The process of manhandling Tourette’s into the shopping trolley was not a simple one, hampered as it was by our complete lack of coordination, the shopping trolley’s habit of moving violently to one side every time some weight was applied to it, and the uncontrollable giggling that was emanating from both of us. But somehow we managed it and there she perched, cross-legged in the trolley while I tried valiantly to push her home.

This proved to be more problematic than it had first appeared. I struggled heroically along the back streets, but the surfaces down these streets are uneven to say the least. A shopping trolley outside its natural environment is not going to find this kind of challenge easy, least of all with a completely trousered pilot attempting to steer it smoothly while his better half sits in the basket giggling at the vibrations… it was like off-roading on a pair of rollerskates. The old kind, with the big, chunky stoppers on the front and the metal base that would cut your feet to ribbons if you so much as looked at them funny.

We giggled as the trolley lurched, hit bumps and nearly tipped over several times. We sniggered as we came to corners or junctions and I stumbled 'furtively' ahead to check that there were no police cars patrolling, whilst Tourette’s ‘hid’ by covering her head with her jacket. Didn’t work; the guffawing that was coming from beneath was enough to cause the trolley to shake from side to side like an agitated Dalek. We managed to get home, eventually - getting her out of the trolley was as big a challenge as getting her in, it turned out. Oh, how we laughed between half arsed attempts at extraction and loud "Shhhhh"s to each other.

We were both in our mid thirties at the time.

It transpired the next day, though, that if you have a knackered back and hips, then shopping trolley travel is not really the way to go...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:16, 2 replies)

I work for a certain supermarket (who've threatened us all with the sack if we talk about them on the interweb)
though I'd like to see them try going through b3ta rather than facebook.

Anyway. My job stacking shelves is boring and pants and moronic but has plenty of opportunities to slack off. Ever asked a supermarket minion to fetch you something, they disappear out the back and don't come back for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes?

We poke holes in empty crisp boxes and follow managers around the warehouse, sinking down whenever they look around for us.

We have punt races using brooms and trolleys to race each other across the warehouse.

We have fencing matches using rolls of christmas/birthday/insert hallmark holiday wrap and then have judging competitions to see who inflicted the best slap marks.

We hide in the cardboard cages and leap out at each other.

We get the blue dollies that the green trays come on and have races in which we scooch along the floor using our feet to propel us. When that bores we go into the office, take the ancient print feed ream paper and some sellotape and twist it up into lances so we can have jousting matches.

We break out of code fruit and vegetables off each other -- celery and cucumbers are fantastic, btw., though they do sting a bit their *crack* as they hit your mate's head is brilliant.

What? Oh no, love, we're right out of those biscuits you wanted, sorry.
(greenycrimson I stole the from pyschotherapist, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:15, 3 replies)

The most childish thing I've done is
Madeleine McCann.

One to Hull please. No, one way only please.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:15, 9 replies)

Asking a candidate in a job interview...
... the one question that defines us all.

"Are you a Benny tied to a tree?"

He replied, correctly: "No. I am not a Benny."

There is no way I'm going to be employing a Benny on the loose.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:15, Reply)

The dean at engineering school
was a thoroughly dislikeable person. During his time in power there he managed to offend and alienate so much of the faculty under him that at this time I only know of three professors who are still there from when I attended, six years ago. He claimed to have basically founded the engineering school (which was already in existence and going strong when he came aboard), and dismantled all of the innovative stuff that had been started by the previous dean in favor of modeling the school after the one at the university he had taught at previously. (Why he thought this was a good idea is beyond me- if people wanted the same sort of education they'd get at UVA, they'd just go to UVA instead of VCU. Twat.)

He was very fond of schmoozing with anyone he thought might be of use to him, and snubbing those he couldn't get anything from. He proudly used his old UVA beer stein as a coffee mug, carrying it all around the school with the UVA logo showing. (Twat.)

One afternoon I went to get something from the vending machines and saw the mug on top of a machine. I picked it up and carried it to the next class, where peoples' eyes popped out of their heads when they saw it in my hand. One girl asked nervously how I happened to have it, so I explained how I had found it lets I be accused of theft. "Don't worry, I'm going to get it back to him today," I assured her.

Did I piss in it? Of course not, that would be cruel.

Instead I put a little water in the bottom of it and left it standing beneath a urinal in the bathroom outside his office.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:12, 2 replies)

Ninja Flip Flop
Don't let my debonaire facade fool you. I'm a lazy stood/beachbum type at heart and as such wear appropriate apparel around the house, including the titular (ha ha, tit!) flip flops. When mrs monders is busy doing womanly things about the house, I'll often loosen a flip, and with a deft flick of my foot send it flying at her with a hearty "Hiiiiii-YAH!"

I'm 28.
(The Boy Monders I have ginger bits in my beard., Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:12, Reply)

I'm told it's perfectly normal
to examine your shit before you wipe and flush.

Apparently it's childish to take a photo of your stinky labours and text it to your mates with the title: Loch Ness Monster Spotted in North London Toilet Bowl Shocker!!!
( SpankyHanky, Thu 17 Sep 2009, 16:06, 7 replies)