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This is a question Easiest Job Ever

Dazbrilliantwhites says he spent five years working at an airport where he spent his days "racing down multi-storey car parks in wheelchairs and then using the lift to go back to the top". Tell us about your best and easiest jobs. Students: Make something up.

(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 12:14)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Ha, got a reply
See here first:

Thank you for contacting Honda (UK).
We were very surprised to receive your question via our website - it's certainly something that none of us can ever remember being asked before!
Unfortunately, we are unable to provide an answer, as there are simply too many people that have worked on the Accord production/test driving process (let alone the rest of the Honda Motor Co…...), ranging from people based within the UK, right through to all the Japanese engineers etc that have had involvement on this product.
We're also pretty sure that if this question was posed to the entire company, we may get a few 'fabricated' answers to this question, which would only serve to fuel the joke, without providing any concrete evidence either way…………

Kind Regards
Bob Honda
(, Tue 14 Sep 2010, 13:13, 8 replies)
Urban Spaceman
One fine Monday morning we turned up for work to discover that the roof had collapsed over the weekend. Unfortunately the ceiling was made of asbestos tiles, so a specialist cleanup team had to be called in. Our boss didn't like the idea of strangers handling our delicate and expensive equipment, so asked for volunteers to properly disconnect it all, ready for decontamination. Since this included wearing an awesome spacesuit, I stepped forward.

It was an odd sensation, knowing that outside your little bubble of safety, the familiar-looking office was filled with invisible death.

Frankly I would have done it for shits and giggles, and was expecting perhaps a pub lunch on the company. Quite surprised to find a £300 bonus at the end of the month, for about an hour spent breathing like Darth Vader and going "beep" at the end of every sentence...

(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 12:27, 5 replies)
ex girlfriend of mine worked as a nanny
(3 weeks on one week off) for a fairly rich family,

other than her usual job of feeding and dressing the
little munchkins she would take them to school which
was a 30 minute train journey through picturesque
countryside to a posh school in London
and then spend the day shopping and being paid for it
(easiest job ever), she would then pick them up after school
and catch the train back, the children were always
quite hyper on the train so she would play spot
the animals as it would always calm them down.

One day on the train she saw a heard of cows and yelled
excitedly "look moo moo cows" all the business men and women
looked at her as if she was from planet nutjob.
It slowly dawned on her she was on her week off and she was on her own.
Needless to say she wanted the ground to swallow her and promptly legged it into the end carriage.
(, Tue 14 Sep 2010, 13:22, 5 replies)
"Run away, before they find out you did it properly!"
Many years ago, I went to the council depot for a job on Special Collections. This involves picking up old mattresses, fridges and the like, all stuff that won't fit the bin. They gave me a labourer and a small tipper wagon. There were 30 jobs on the sheet, none more than 5 miles away.

Started at 7, knocked out the first 20, went to the tip, knocked out another 6, which took us to lunch. Finished about 2.30 and went back to the depot.

All hell broke loose. First, we'd done 3 days work in 7 hours. Second, we hadn't flogged the metal items (gas cookers, radiators etc.) to the scrap merchants. Apparently we were supposed to leave half the money under the seat for the regular driver. Third, we'd not taken 10 hours, the minimum for ANY day's work. And last, the diesel we'd used for the mileage done, was WAY below what the regulars used.

I'm supposed to be still on the union blacklist, 19 years later.
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 20:15, Reply)
I am a boner. My job title is literally 'boner.'
I add the skeletal rigs to 3D characters for animation - a process known as 'boning.' Ergo I am a boner. It's an easy enough job.

I boned a wizard last night.
(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 21:12, 4 replies)
Hands up if
you want me to send this email to Honda UK.

In order to satisfy an in-joke/meme on a certain website (B3ta), would you be able to answer this positively bizarre question?

Do any or have any of your staff, preferably involved in the test-driving of the Honda Accord (or any other part of the production process for that matter) ever been or are currently married to or dating a model (super or otherwise)?

(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 13:13, 23 replies)
A few things to make your job easier
I am by definition, a lazy bastard. This is why I have found a few things to make your working day a little easier. Gleaned from the internet, and learned from experience, a few things that mean I can generally hang out include, but are not limited to:

* Walking around quickly with a frown from place to place. Never underestimate how much this looks like you are doing something important.

* Making the tea. Everyone likes tea.

* Looking at your computer with a frown and huffing every once in a while. If you can rub your eyes and your face once in a while to imitate fatigue then all the better. People will think you're knee deep in reports or whatever it is that people really do with computers...

* I have recently taken charge of our company website. Nobody knows how long things take to update, meaning I have free reign on time spent at the pc / B3ta.

* Phone people. Anyone, who cares? I phone our suppliers for a chat. Stretch out that Monday morning order to a full 20 minutes and you can work off that two day hangover from Saturday a little bit easier.

* Arrange meetings. I have made a meeting last a day. Fuck knows what people really do with them. I almost never come away from meetings thinking 'that was productive'.

* Search the internet for new suppliers. This only works when you need suppliers for things.

* Write replies to B3ta QOTW in Word. I find opening an already existing document and writing the answer halfway down a document helps. People will marvel how many documents you can bash out in a day...

* Every now and again, when I have nothing better to do, I will sit at my pc until everyone has left, then lock up about 5 minutes afterwards. They will always ask what time you left, but I find if you give an unambiguous and joking 'eventually', then you look like a manager's hero. If you add a comedic rolling of the eyes with this, generally nobody questions you. If they do, avoid them. They are probably a suspicious bastard and should be held at arms length..

Add to this the fact that I have recently put our company on Twitter and Facebook, I now have an almost perfect cover story for all my web based actions. If only I can find a cover story for the smut...

I'm sure there are more. Feel free to add your own and share your ideas..
(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 16:51, 12 replies)
I got it wrong
As a young shaver I was a temp working for multinational electronics manufacture in the testing department. My job involved pressing a button and putting a tick in a box. It was a dull job and without prospects, and with no qualifications there was no way forward for me. I was loaned to the engineering and development department for 3 months to do some slightly more interesting work, but still testing. When the loan period came to an end the first manger thought I was still on loan – because I just didn’t go back- and the second manger thought I’d gone back to my original job.

I had a room tucked away on the 2nd floor, well away from the managers on the 5th floor, with a couple of high spec computers and various test and measuring equipment. I became a ‘gun for hire’ working on any problems that sounded interesting, and turning down anything boring by claiming I was too busy. Before long the busy excuse was the truth.

Eventually I got found out when a colleague bypassed me and went to my supposed manager to ask for some of my time. I was immediately summoned to a meeting with both managers. After calling me an idiot and raising their eyebrows at the amount of overtime I had claimed, my role as a freelance MacGyver was ended.

The price I paid for this deception was immediately getting a permanent job in product development, being sent to university to do a funded degree, a few years of interesting work, international travel and lifelong career prospects.

Reading these stories you can imagine what an idiot I feel now, I could have sat on my arse, played computer games for 8 months and got paid for it.
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 10:04, 1 reply)
I used to get paid to drink booze
For a while I lived with someone who worked for a major brewer (their slogan is Making Beer Great) and I was literally paid to drink.

She would give me a hundred quid, a notebook and a thermal probe and send me out to some of her clients' pubs. I simply had to order a pint of ale, check it was poured into the correct branded glass, make sure the head was right, point the thermometer at it (as surreptitously as possible) and if I wanted to, drink it whislt noting down my findings. I'd them mooch off to the next establishment on the list and repeat the process.

By the end of an evening mystery shopping the quality of my notes was suffering somewhat.....
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 15:14, 5 replies)
radiology fleshlump
I was lying on a table, bare chested and my jogging pants pulled down dangerously low. The elderly man held a compact cylinder with the tip slightly larger and egg shaped. He dipped two, or three, fingers of his free hand into a pot with clear and oozy stuff. Then he stepped a bit closer to me, and began to spread the slime across my lower abdomen, massaging it in gently, while politely addressing the crowds of what he was going to do with my inner organs. His engaging manner and dry humour on them invading my cavities in public amused us.

After he had deposited the last of it across my hairy, pale paunch with a jolly swipe, he proceeded to fiddle with a bigger device that the gently humming hand held part was linked to. He asked around, which part of my intestine they would like him to penetrate first. My helpless smile at the situation and shabby, hungover mug i carried let some of the people assembled show sympathetic shrugs. One hand firmly pressed against the side of my guts, the taskmaster now pressed the phallic contraption below my navel. My colon inside the pubic bone appeared in ghostly greys, gently swaying like big lazy snakes. Transmitted on several screens, and commented by the man, they took a journey up my wotsits.

He rubbed it downwards slowly, stopping to adjust, pointing out his intents to the audience. At one point, he could exactly describe the bits i had for breakfast and that i was about to fart inside the next hour. Every now and then, he would grab a bit of the slime and spread it on me, until my whole lower abdomen was finally covered. And so they went on for more than an hour, without cease now trying this angle, now another penetration depth. And the audience was invited as well to take part in traversing my guts, to focus on blood vessels and to trace the lines of my bones. Wavering in and out between interest and lack of sleep, i obeyed commands to move and hold breath.

Afterwards i had a massive fart cascade on the stairs outside, then lit my roll-up, smiling. There now were dozens of strangers that had a decent peek and fumble. They possibly went deeper than the great Long Dong Silver, and left this clear liquid drying just above my crotch. Stroking, nudging and circling my soft nether regions with their relentless tool. Money was all right as well. What wouldn't i do..
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 10:41, 5 replies)
I was hired as a geologist for a gold mine in the west australian desert, my second one fresh out of uni
more money than I deserved. when I started, I genuinely feared, "fuck, this might be a job where I may have to do some work for a change". But three events conspired so I didn't.

First off the bat, a passing cyclone flooded a river for 13 weeks, blocking the only access to the mine and with it the supply of diesel. This stopped all but essential work, and eventually they grew tired of us boozing all day and flew us home for the last 6 weeks on full pay.

After this they brought in 4 new drill rigs and assigned us geos one each to manage, shit work if ever there was such. The second day driving to work on it, I could see a column of black smoke and eventually my drill rig, on fire. They fucked around for two weeks trying to repair it and retrieve their buried drill string, before deciding it was beyond hope, while I stayed in my cabin smoking cones and watching ski videos.

The drilling company said they werent going to replace the broken rig. It was at this time my boss announced that after 20 years, he was taking all his 6 months long service leave. As I had no rig, he gave me one assignment, and a pretty hurried and piss-poor one at that. They had all these old exploration leases that were expiring, patches of ground throughout the desert that had been pecked over before, and he wanted me to give them one final look before they expired. and then he left. For six months I had a free licence to roam around the desert, swagging out under the stars with roos and passing camels for company. I did a lot of acid in this period, so much so that I haven't felt like doing it again for 13 years. About two weeks before he was due to return, I realised I hadn't done any work to show for my 6 months. So I went to a barren outcrop, took about 1000 identical samples. then marked them on my maps as if Id been all over the shot, working. of course they all came back from the lab with zero gold, but that was expected anyway. The gods of slack smiled upon me in that job
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 17:44, 3 replies)
Covering a non-job
Easiest job ever was temporary cover for a guy called John who worked in a large disability-related charity. John's job was in reprographics and he'd worked there for 30+ years - he showed me a lovely anniversary album the staff had made for him during our hand-over.

Now reprographics means copying, and copying - back in the day - was, I presume, a time consuming task. Carbon copies, all kinds of hand-cranked mechanical devices for "automating" the process and so on. It was boring job no doubt, but a proper one.

However we now have these things called photocopiers, that as well as allowing us to produce images of our posteriors, do a pretty good job of copying documents. So over 30 years John's job had gone from quite integral to the organisation to utterly obsolete. But John was near retirement age, and he had the disability that the charity worked on, so they obivously couldn't bring themselves to sack him. Despite the fact that his job now involved having two photocopiers in his 'office' in the basement of the building and doing the photocopying of any of the members of staff who were too lazy to do their own (there were photocopiers all round the rest of the building anyway).

So John was going on holiday. Obviously management thought that it would be insensitive not to get a temp in to cover for him, as it might demonstrate that his job was pointless. So I arrived from the agency to do the photocopying.

However no one told any of the staff this - they knew he was off on holiday and sensibly assumed that the basement office would be empty. When one of them ventured down to the basement to leave John some photocopying 'to do on his return', she was shocked to find a gangly youth sitting at his desk, with headphones on, reading Crime and Punishment.

Length? A week and a day of audio-literary employment bliss.
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 13:15, Reply)
Ok mentioning something like a job in mining may not sound like a walk in the park but trust me when you have a job like mine (Executive officer) the job entitles nothing more than to visit site, inspect the machines and that’s it (The task of looking after the workers etc is for the higher ups and any IT faults are left to the tekkys).

Anywhoo the only bit of work I have had to do was recently when we were on our way back from a job I was woken up mid travel from my nap (Top tip: Always let someone else drive) and told that we had to go check out another site. I was a bit pissed as I was chosen to go and do the monkey work and get my kit dirty. In a rare bit of karma in the only bit of hard work I had to do I was attacked by the local wildlife (Nothing major but I am planning on visiting the doctors back home to get a sicknote and spend a few days doing sod all at home).

I would love to carry on about how easy it is but I’m about to get off to a party before setting off home (Which in my case means going back to bed).I really can’t wait to eat something, you should hear the sounds my stomach is making. I just hope that the bitch Ripley is there, she wanted to keep me in some form of sodding quarantine while that thing was stuck to my face.


Executive Officer Kane
(, Wed 15 Sep 2010, 10:32, 6 replies)
youtube moderator.
I was in charge of monitoring all the intelligent comments.
(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 18:04, 11 replies)
The Pope Must Die
A mate of mine worked as a freelance satellite engineer for TV news. Basically he sets up the computer controlled satellite equipment (which generally takes minutes) and points it at the sky. All he has to do then is make sure it doesn’t break down. He’s being paid for his knowledge of all things satellite – if anything does go wrong he can sort it out, but 99% of the time it doesn’t, so he just sits around on his arse, often in five star hotels, watching other people work.

That’s not the easy bit though – due to the nature of his job he’s had to visit various war-zones: Afghanistan, Iraq etc, so the handsome pay is mostly justified just for risking his neck in such places in the first place. However, he also gets quite a few less dangerous assignments – mainly assorted sporting events, which is a waste since he has zero interest in most sport. But his easiest assignment was surely back in 2003…

The famous sexist and homophobic AIDS spreader Pope John Paul II had been ill for years. Rumours swirled around media circles about his failing health and possible imminent death. The big news organisations know they need to be on top of things like this, so my mate was duly dispatched to Rome with satellite equipment so that when the old bloke carked it they’d be ready.

Now obviously Rome is not quite as remote as Kabul and has pretty reliable power etc already and as a result, when my mate had done the initial set-up, he had very little to do, except sit around, drink coffee, eat pizza and watch the Romans drive into each other (as anyone who has been to that city will know they have a tendency to do).

The only rule was that he had to be within 30 minutes of the equipment in case anything went wrong. So no trips to the seaside, but as long as he stayed within a Dan Brown-novel’s-plot-distance of the Vatican he could essentially do whatever he liked. Full expenses, nice hotel and every penny of his pay going straight into his already considerable savings account.

His initial run of this was six weeks, after which someone else took over for the next stint of Pope-death-watching, whilst my mate took a not-at-all hard earned break. After this break the Pope was still apparently on the verge of going to a better place (probably one populated by small choir-boys), so my mate went back to Rome for another stint of café slouching.

This happened three times in all - meaning he ended up spending the best part of a year waiting for the Pope to die…and the best part was JP lived another 18 months and didn’t actually get to meet the big boss man until 2005, by which time my lucky bastard mate was living the high-life in Australia, playing with his satellites at cricket matches.

I hate him.
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 14:33, 4 replies)
I was given a day's work as an extra on a drama series a few years ago.
I showed up on set in one of Dublin's best pubs, the extras handler bought me a pint and said he'd be back in a few minutes.
A few minutes later he returned and said the scene I was supposed to be in was cancelled.
One day's pay to drink a pint.
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 13:31, 3 replies)
My job used to be easy
As I am a supermodel I used to live the life of riley. All I had to do was turn up at a photoshoot, wear whatever clothing I was asked to, look in the right direction and get paid a shitload of money but recently it has become hell.

God knows exactly when it happened but a recent change to our job description on a global scale means that we also have to have sex with any Honda Accord owner that dishes out vigilante justice within a 100 yard radius. I seem to be doing this a hell of a lot (several times a week nowadays) and am walking like john friggin wayne after the last incident (I won’t shame the bloke in question but let me just say that trying to shove your limited edition light sabre up my ass while reading me your own script treatment to a possible sequel to Krull is not my idea of kinky. I don’t even know what the glaive is for god’s sake!!!!

Sorry for the rant, I have to get off now as duty calls I’ve just heard the tell tale sound of a car bearing down on some local drug dealer.
(, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 10:33, 3 replies)
I reckon whoever is in charge of dreaming up new ideas for BBC Three has a piss easy job.

Idea person: "I have some ideas. Erm, what about a reality show where the contestants have six weeks to set up a circus on the theme of explosive dysentry? Or how about a spin on 'carboot challenge'? Five claustrophobics are bundled into the boot of a Fiat 126 that's been driven to an unknown location onto some wasteland and then set on fire, and they have to escape?

Or! or!, and I'm quite proud of this idea. 'Surgery Academy'. Four school drop-outs from impoverished backgrounds have to learn surgical skills in 2 months and save the lives of patients close relatives on a hospital waiting list with only weeks to live?.
Erm, fuck it. The first person to bugger a dog to death
(, Tue 14 Sep 2010, 9:26, 21 replies)
I almost got the job
of being Kate Winslett's masseur. But they told me it was $50,000 a year. I said "Look, I really want the job, but I just can't afford that much."
(, Sat 11 Sep 2010, 23:49, Reply)
8 inch commute saves shit stripper from life of prostitution
So I've done years in call centres, harrasing gullible old ladies of an evening to buy first aid kits and extensions on their catalogue repayments.
I've worked for four years in McDonalds and only achieved two stars.
I've grafted in the local radio industry for ten years, writing inane adverts, annoying jingles, and getting managerial bollockings every two days for my 'exuberant personality.'
I've worked hard and always earned SHIT MONEY.

So when I got made redundant from my radio job due to the credit crunch, I thought it was the end of the world. I applied for many unsuitable jobs, and even did a highly unsuccessful stint as a stripper (trust me, I'm not half bad to look at with top legs and even topper titties, but strangely, getting a dance is more about what you SAY to the guy, not how pert your teats are. Seems the gents don't like to be outwitted by smart ladies - I earned FECK all. In fact, I was about to go and work in one of the less respectable clubs where 'touchy feely time' is allowed before I got rescued from an unlikely source)

I spent a fairly pleasant ten months out of work, writing my book and attempting to show my nudie bits to unwilling men, and then...my redundancy pay ran out. FUCK.

On the day this happened, I got THE FEAR. Don't send me back to the dark place! I'm an office retard, I can't brew up and I say offensive things to my colleagues that I think are piss funny.

And then it came and saved me. BINGO! A mate of my brother's needed some SEO articles writing for his bingo site - they paid well and I could sit on my arse at home, no phonecalls off clients, no irritating colleagues, no shit for me to put my foot in with management.

And here's the easy bit. After just 8 months, I now have a £32k per year client list, and all I have to do is get up in the morning, commute EIGHT INCHES to my desk and dictate 10 - 15 inane little articles in to a bluetooth headset which speeds up my writing by 300 - 500%.

I can now churn out about one every 5-10 mins - and work is plentiful and easy to find.

I feel so guilty that others have to actually commute, work/live down mines for four months at a time/milk turkeys - and the best thing about it? I can work anywhere in the world as long as it has wifi and BEER.

Love from Vicky, currently travelling the US of A with a laptop on her knee.
(, Sat 11 Sep 2010, 3:01, 9 replies)
Just do what he does...
I once got a job with a mail-order catalogue firm. On my first day, a guy was appointed to show me the ropes - he led me down into an area where all the stock was on shelves, ready for order picking, pointed to one rack of shelves and said, "you get up there." He then climbed up on to the top of the rack on the other side, stretched out and went to sleep. I quit on the third day, driven crazy by the piped muzak but still having no idea what I was supposed to do.
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 14:34, 2 replies)
Gamer boy bait ...
I always have, and always will be, a gamer gal.

It all started back in the glorious days of 1985 when my jammy wee sod of a sister won a Nintendo Entertainment System off the back of a packet of Rice Bubbles. We were instantly the most popular kids in the street. That summer was nothing but all day Super Mario Bros fests at ours, until the olds kicked us off the box to watch Neighbours. The swines.

That little old grey box of endless amusement sounded the first death knell for that other great time and money soak, the gaming arcade.

During my early uni days, I managed to score the most awesome job of all ... in a high-tech, flashy games parlour. It was a chain launched in Australia in the early 90s as a last ditch attempt by one arm of an ailing gaming industry to fend off the relentless march of the home gaming console.

Whilst it lasted, it was brilliant. Occasionally handing out change to punters. Cleaning and, ahem, testing the machines. And my mighty bi-lock key of power provided me with endless free games. Time Crisis, Street Fighter, Ninja Turtles, Alien vs Predator ... I made each one my bitch. I got busted by the (unregistered sex offender) manager, who instead of firing me had a great idea. I was encouraged to challenge the regulars at their favourite games. No male teenage ego could stand the challenge to put his initials above mine in the top 10 and be relieved of his cash with frightening speed in the process.

I was so damn young and naive at the time, that I never realised that I was gamer boy bait. Neither did I question why I always landed the 8pm to 12pm shifts and had a security guard escort me to my car.
(, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 6:00, 3 replies)
Natural risk assessor
Where I work has a big "data centre" in Ohio, which is hired out to various big organisations for storing data, because it is bomb proof.

They hire a team of people whose job it is to escalate any physical risk to the building or the data it stores. The risks are:

1. A war
2. A tornado
3. A flood

and they assess the risk of these each day by watching the television. When I went to visit they had made paper hats and were having wheely office chair races.
(, Fri 10 Sep 2010, 14:09, Reply)
Steam cleaning
I used to work on Sundays at a posh hotel, and my job was to clean up the kitchen after we'd catered for a wedding the night before. I had eight hours to clean all of the walls and the ceiling, before someone would come along at 6pm to inspect (which meant sticking their head in the door and checking that the walls looked wet). The kitchen was part of an annex, so was separate from the main hotel kitchen, where the other kitchen cleaners worked.

A couple of months in, I had the idea of 'steam cleaning' the kitchen. I would turn up at around 10am and fill up a HUGE pan of water (industrial size - I'm talking 160 pints or more). After popping it in the (huge) oven, and turning up the temperature to about 250 degrees, I would retire to the hotel's lake area and watch the ducks for two or three hours. Finally, I would tentatively creep back into the kitchen, edge towards the oven, open the door and RUN for my life's worth. As I ran, the steam would overtake me, so I would have to know where the door was.

After another couple of hours with the ducks, I'd make my way back to the kitchen with a cloth in my hand, sleeves rolled up and ready to be commended, once again, for the "very thorough job - not an inch missed" that I'd achieved. Hooray!
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 23:31, 10 replies)
Well it's not my story
But A guy I know worked at a factory all through the 80's and 90's The factory made beer barrels, but had a military production line in a pile of large sheds out the back to make incendiary bombs in case of war. Now this guy finished his apprenticeship, having worked through the foundry and their machining departments. he then was meant to be assigned to one of the two sections but something went wrong in the paperwork and he didnt, so he used to go in each day, clock in, then wander over to the sheds at the back and go inside then place a chair against the dorr and sleep through the day. At the end he'd clock out and go down the pub. End of each week he'd pick his wages up. all the departments knew he worked there, but thought he must work for someone else. He got away with this for 14 years..
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 20:13, Reply)
Headline writer for the Daily Express.
It was quite difficult at first, but in the end I developed a macro as I was basically pig-lazy.

It came to a head when it generated the headline "Princess Di violated by gypsy migrants".
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 18:10, 3 replies)
Making your own fun
One Christmas when I was a student, I worked in Woolworths on the High St. in the little town where I grew up

I'd been taken on to help with the 'Christmas Rush', which didn't especially seem to materialise. Plus the fact, my responsibility was clearly defined as being 'looking after the store-room'.

One or two deliveries arrived a day, and I rolled some cages off the lorry and put them away tidily. My only other responsibility was helping the people who worked on the shop floor find things when they came in. Since I was doing 8 hour shifts, this was not a lot to keep me occupied. I had to create my own fun.

- Creating a racetrack around the vast storeroom using boxes as the four corners or a square track, then racing around on a child's scooter and trying to improve my time daily
- Also attempting the above with a pallet-truck, resulting in the destruction of several boxes of Christmas Chocolate Selection packs due to an unfortunate cornering mishap in the chocolate section
- Having found a couple of old tents on a shelf at the back, creating a campsite tableaux peopled (if you can call it that) with cuddly toys
- Chalking some stumps on the wall and having a bit of cricket practice, with the 6'5 store manager using a 2' child's bat salvaged from a kit
- Breaking my own keepy-uppy record
- Reading a book in the toilet
- Taking up smoking. Just so I had an excuse to go and stand outside for five minutes

The genuine highlight of my day was if someone looked dodgy downstairs and I, being the only employee in my own clothes since I was the store-room monkey, was called down to play spies and trail some junkies around the toy dept.

Could have been boring, but years as a student had inured me to inaction. It was pure bliss... and I got paid.
(, Thu 9 Sep 2010, 12:46, Reply)
I honestly cannot understand a lot of these posts saying "I basically got paid to sit on my arse for 3 months. It was great!" Seriously? That would be my idea of hell. I think I would have some kind of psychotic episode through boredom.

The job I do involves working extremely long hours (well over 100 hours a week during busy periods) including lots of weekend work and is stressful to the point that I'll probably have a massive heart attack by the time I'm 40. It is however the easiest thing I have ever done. Why? Because I love it. It fulfiils me both intellectually and creatively. I'd still want to do this even if I wasn't getting paid for it.

The hard work and stress may have left me broken and on the verge of alcoholism more times than I care to remember but boredom is a slow, miserable death.
(, Tue 14 Sep 2010, 9:13, 14 replies)

"After I’d thrown them at her, the pineapple flavoured syrup was soaking into her white t-shirt, letting her glorious nipples shine through. She took off the top slowly, stretching her back to let me have a good look. Her nipples were virtually pulsating, she was so hot for me right then. I stepped towards her, millimetres separating our aching bodies. I don’t think I’ve ever been more aroused. Her breath is all heavy and she’s saying, just fuck me. So first I slide my hand rou... where was I? Oh yeah. So I slide my hands round her waist and cup her arse cheeks in both, picking her up and sitting her on the desk. I stroke up and down, opening her thighs and getting tantalisingly close to her hot wet cunt. She’s almost hyperventilating she wants it so bad. I scratch down her back and she arches. She can clearly take very little more of this. I slowly slide one hand down her toned stomach, closer and closer with my fingers’ tips as her chest rises and falls, as she clutches at my flesh and whispers for more. I’m on the mound of her pelvis pushing slowly down ready to connect with the soft, warm flesh that’ll make her go wild. My fingertips touch the very edge of her clitoris and she holds her breath. I slide my fingers either side of her pussy, teasing her to the very last. She can’t be having that, she grabs my cock and pulls me into her. The head of my penis is flush at her gate, nuzzling slightly in her soggy lips. I pull back, pick her up and throw her onto the bed before diving after her. I ram straight home and she pulls a face like she’s just been plugged into the matrix. She’s pulling at me, strongly, trying to get me to fuck her harder. I’m so deep inside her I think our bones are grinding together and it’s painful but so fucking good. I want to tear her apart. As I’m slamming into her, the tightness of her cunt lips catches on my cock, sorry to have me leave them, begging me to stay and fuck. Fuck all night. Fuck forever. I want to be inside her until the world ends, with her warm thighs now wrapped around me, my chest on hers, still sticky so that every time I pull away slightly her breasts are still on me. Her fingernails are on my back shedding the skin as I kiss her in a way that can only be described as mutually assured destruction. If anyone thinks I’m having my way with her, one look at this awesome sight could only assume that she’s having her way with me. She punches me square in the jaw as she comes so hard her body turns to rock and I am literally caged inside of her. As her hardness melts away, her cunt now so wet we’re fucking in a puddle, I feel the rush. I start convulsing before exploding with force that if she weren’t enveloping me would splash all the way through to the next room. While I’m unable to control myself, she has calmed, stroking me, smiling with her other hand on her face, with her eyes open but seeing nothing. Slowly, I crumple down, being careful to keep enough of my weight off her so she can stay in that dream state. My heart is still pounding as hard as hers. I feel her pelvis muscles spasming slightly, grabbing at my still hard cock, as if they’re asking for more already. I ask her if it was any good and she tells me she doesn’t know who or where she is, or why it is she can’t see, but if I do that again she’ll love me forever.

And that’s when I decided to marry your mother, son."

Professional Parent.
(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 15:36, 11 replies)
Not me personally but....
When I worked in Sainsbury's many moons ago, it was approaching the millenium and of course the Y2K bug was on everyone's mind. The district office had decided that our store would melt down unless some staff were present to monitor all the fridges, computers, tills etc

I volunteered for the job, since it was a straight forward £500 + overtime added at double time. Without that no-one was giving up their new years eve.

Alas they picked the deputy store manager and a department manager. Now the Deputy Store manager was gorgeous and recently had her hubby walk out on her.

Anyway, the next day we all came back to work and asked how the previous night went for them.

Deputy Manager: "Oh we just packed shelves, had a glass of champagne at midnight and shut the systems down shortly after, nothing special"

That didn't explain the big greasy arse and hand prints we found on the office desks and the used condom we found in the skips.

Over a grand in pay for that, yes I'm jealous. Seen her last year too, you still would.
(, Mon 13 Sep 2010, 9:36, Reply)

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