Booze (or not)
Working in a pub you meet lots of nice people, unfortunately you also have to suffer more than your fair share of cockends.

Now, I have a large number of footy style knobbers who drink in my establishment and one week a particularly loud, mono-brain celled chap fucked me off and I vowed to get him back. The next week he struts in, not bothering to appologise for last weeks penistry and orders a bottle of Becks, and so it starts. I take an ice cold bottle out of the fridge, open it and plonk it in front of him.

Now he proceeds to drink another 8 odd bottles, getting louder and more obnoxious with each one.

Once again he's getting on my nerves. His loud and grating voice letting everyone in the postcode know his small and worthless opinion on every subject. So, I go over to tell him to wind his neck in and stop being so obnoxious.

"Well, you shouldn't have served me so much beer," he tells me. To which, with a big shit eating grin, I can only reply by picking up one of his empty bottles off the table and pointing at it. "It's no alcohol Becks, you idiot. That's all I've been serving you today".

His mates start pissing themselves and taking the piss out of their "friend", who it transpires has managed to get "drunk" of 9 bottles of 0.05% lager. To make matters even better, he ran out of money, couldn't afford to buy another drink, his mates wouldn't buy him one and he got the appropriate response from me when he asked for a tab.

Yes, sometimes I like the power I have in my job.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 12:41, 18 replies)

Nobody Steals My Lunch




Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 0:30, 9 replies)

Not technically sabotage...
...but it could have been done on purpose. I'd arranged to meet a friend at Victoria station, and as I'm waiting I happen to notice possibly the world's worst transvestite sitting down to eat outside Burger King. Honestly, he had a beard. I decided not to snigger because he was around 9 feet tall and he could probably beat me to a pulp whilst still in stilettos.

Anyway, much like myself he performed "burger surgery" before he ate (opening it up and removing the tomatoes and anything else that may wind up down the front of your shirt/dress). As he opened it up a pigeon swooped in from nowhere and shat all over his exposed burger.

I have honestly never seen anyone look so sad as that 9 foot man-lady did as he stared at his shit-covered burger.
(GONEism, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:16, 12 replies)

A little bit different this one
Let me introduce you to two of my one-time uni flatmates, in an abominable student house in a tumbledown suburb of Coventry.

First up, Dave. Dave was a very nice, very smart guy, but had serious issues connecting with reality. Apropos of nothing, he was a physics student. Dave was officially Coventry's second-best chess player (yes, there is a league of such things apparently), spectacularly disorganised and geekier that geek.

Oddly enough, the girls weren't exactly tripping over each other in a mad rush to get into his pants.

Second, may I introduce Joey. Joey fitted the stereotype of the pyromaniac chemistry student perfectly, and had to be banned from bringing his home-made napalm (styrofoam peanuts dissolved in petrol, if anyone's interested) into the flat. Joey also played chess as it happened, but what he lacked in skill he would make up for in attempting to psyche his opponent out by (amongst other things) painting his fingernails during his opponent's turn or wearing a chef's hat throughout the game, whilst remaining crosseyed and giggling to himself. Suffice it to say that Joey had something of a warped and evil sense of humour.

Dave, in a moment of uncharacteristic lucidity, had noticed that there were a large number of single, attractive girls in the Vegetarian Society, who were probably not interested in the usual macho men and might go instead for a geeky, slightly dazed-looking physicist/chess nerd. Only trouble was, of course, that Dave was not even vaguely a vegetarian, loving a good chicken curry as much as the rest of us.

Nonetheless, Dave joined the Veggie Society (I'm guessing they didn't search his pockets for meat products at the sign-up stall - Christ alone knows what they would have found) and, to everyone's shock, got to know one of the girls quite well.

Joey, meanwhile, was participating in another one of his "experiments". Following the outstanding success of his "shave his beard into a Hitler moustache and walk around campus with a severe side parting" experiment (he managed 3 hours before someone said something), his latest project was to build a candle out of a jar, a piece of string, and an ample supply of burger and sausage fat obtained from the pan under our grill.

Joey's experiment was a success, the candle worked very well. However, the candle also emitted a stench of sausages and general sliminess that caused us, once again, to ban Joey from lighting the damn thing in the house.

One day, word got round that Dave had reached first base with this girl and was bringing her back to the flat that evening. Joey, ever the crusader for truth and warrior against hypocrisy (that's what he said, anyway), took the sausage candle, lit it, and hid it in Dave's cupboard.

The smell of sausages was so strong we could smell it outside the front door. Dave and the girl appeared, went into Dave's bedroom, and we heard raised voices. The girl left after about three minutes, and we never saw her again. Dave didn't actually seem too upset. Maybe this happened to him a lot. Maybe he hadn't even noticed (it certainly found him almost a week to discover the melted, reeking remains of the candle).

So yes, food sabotage. But sometimes it's not the food you sabotage.
(Axeman Jim, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:41, 3 replies)

Pan sabotage
Not strictly food but an item for preparing food.

My dad was a bit of a "see you next Tuesday". I remember one year as a kid he asked my mother what she wanted for her birthday. She jokingly said he might as well get her a new pan so she can cook his pasta in it (as women do).

He took her to her word (as men do) and on the morning of her birthday he presented a pan shaped present wrapped in happy birthday paper (and a thoughtful bow) and all hell broke loose.

He got her something else pretty sharpish but it was never forgotten (you know women and that)

Years later it turned out he hadn't just bought her a new pan after all, he had bought her a set of pans. Six in total, each slightly smaller than the next - they stacked into each other.

Eventually she calmed down and the time came for us to chuck the old pan (loose handle) and use "The new pan" instead.

Dad took great pride in saying it was a useful present after all and despatched the old one with the wonky handle to the bin. I think she might have taken a swing at him with it at some time during the proceedings.

Of course after two weeks "the new pan" was substituted (in the dead of night) for the next size down by my dad who had hidden the set in the loft.

Two more weeks later and the next smallest pan was taken down from the loft and replaced the previous. 3 months later she was down to the milk pan, insisting all along that it must be the heat shrinking the metal.

Of course this became a topic of intense discussion with everyone and anyone she knew even for years after. Quite frankly she's never been the same since (but that's men for you).
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 21:32, 6 replies)

When Gordon Ramsay ‘cum’ to dinner…

A while ago I used to work in a local restaurant that was struggling to make ends meet. I would wash dishes, chop carrots and occasionally knock up the odd starter or sweet etc when the poor chef was rushed off his rancid, overworked feet.

I was enthusiastic and ambitious, but lacking the ‘special something’ that separates the great culinary masters from...well…people like me. At the time I could knock up a mean tapioca pudding but little else...all I had was a dream...

Nonetheless, I was happy, and was bumbling through my daily duties one (particularly busy) day when my hero, the legendary Gordon Ramsay cockily strutted through the doors!

He was researching the place as a potential venue for his ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ programme and had popped by to check out our food and service etc before deciding whether or not to work his particular magic on the flagging business.

Well, as a budding cuisine-concocting connoisseur, meeting the prestigious GR in the flesh was like a dream come true for me, and I begged the head chef to let me cook the great man something…anything. I felt that it would be my ultimate ‘claim to fame’, and my life would therefore become complete.

With a wry smile the chef replied: “Alright then, you can do the starter. But don’t knack it up, or I’ll cut your bollocks off, you little shag-stain”.

You can imagine the orgasmic glee shuddering through my nadsack as I was given charge of banging together a prawn cocktail for the greatest and most famous chef in the world.

However, that unbridled joy soon turned to despair as I went out into the restaurant and, with arm trembling, reached out to shake his hand. “Mr Ramsay” I stammered, “I just want to say how privileged I am to meet you, and I will try my very best to make you a fine starter course of which I hope you will be proud”

“FUCKING FUCK YOU!” spat the scarred-chinned, Scottish-by-birth ball breaker. “I don’t give a fuck, and I don’t want to waste my fucking valuable time talking to a fucking little wanker like you, so FUCK RIGHT OFF!” He pushed away my outstretched hand and turned his head away in disgust.

So with my dreams dashed and my eyes filling up with tears, I ran back to the kitchen to prepare the ingredients for him. In my defence, it was only when I heard “...and hurry up with my fucking prawn cocktail, you fucking little cumsponge” yelled from the restaurant that something inside my head ‘snapped’.

‘Wanker’ eh?...‘Cumsponge’ is it?...’I’ll show him’, I mumbled to myself as I sneakily sloped off with his dish full of prawns into the pantry cupboard. I made sure I couldn't be interrupted before I unzipped my ridiculously patterned chef’s trollies and whopped my charlie out of my dunghampers.

Then, with my tongue poking out with concentration, I bashed my bulging bishop at a frantic pace, and it wasn’t long before oodles of salty electric rope splurged from my putrid purple pulsating prit-stick all over the prawns of the foul-mouthed arse-biscuit. I then zipped up, and mixed the still-warm junior-juice with a globule of salad cream, Worcester sauce and ketchup before taking it out and banging the dish down on his table.

“Enjoy” I sneered at him before striding back to the kitchen and emptying my locker - preparing for the inevitable sacking I would receive once my crime was discovered.

A few minutes later, I was going round the staff saying my goodbyes, when suddenly the kitchen double doors were kicked open – and there stood Ramsay.

He had a face like a smacked arse – then I realised he always looked like that.

I was expecting it to 'kick off' big style – but as he approached me he smiled broadly, shook my hand and complimented me! – He said that although the rest of the meal was an ‘utter sack of crap’, my starter was ‘divinely delicious!’ He added that it showed I had a ’fucking remarkable’ talent and a ‘very special fucking sauce’ (little did he know how 'spot on' he was). He advised the restaurant owner to build the entire business around my ‘gift’.

I was a success!

The restaurant owner was overjoyed. He immediately hoofed the old head chef out on his arse and offered me the top job…insisting that I treat every meal with the exact same level of ‘hard commitment’ that I had given to Gordon.

I realised I was only an average chef at best…so I knew that there was only one secret ingredient that made my cooking ‘special’ compared to everyone else’s.

Thusly, my career as a professional wanker was born.

I chucked my rocket-powered rice pudding with gusto over every single dish I prepared – eccentrically explaining away any stonk-on-related delays with "You can’t stifle my art with your gluttonous wanton impatience...philistines!"

Where I managed to summon up the superhuman shaft-shuffling energy time after time I’ll never know, but soon I understood that I would need additional ‘spermalicious' supplies…and every night, when the doors were locked after closing time, I got busy...

Through careful experimentation I discovered that I could control the level of potency, strength, and flavour of the ‘seminal semolina’ I produced. I mastered this simply by thinking about different things, and adopting different rhythmic grooves and speeds whilst pitilessly pummelling my pork sword.

For example, over my ‘Cream of button mushroom soup’ I would gently stroke my coughing custard cannon whilst fantasising about Barbara Cartland in a barbed wire thong; however if I wanted a full-on, extreme curry spice mixture I would tug hard and frantically whilst conjuring up images of Eva Longoria wearing nothing but instant whip and a gold ankle chain.

Every dish was gobbled down by the gorging, grateful customers at a veritable rate of knots. Soon my culinary masterpieces were the talk of the town and we were doing a roaring trade – but I was becoming increasingly aware of a fast approaching problem…

My ‘gunge tanks’ were running seriously low on jitler and my heavily bruised hog’s eye just couldn’t produce enough man-fat to cope with demand.

Every waking moment, my mind was occupied on obtaining as much splooge as I possibly could. After an evening of sweet lovin’, I would roll off my spent girlfriend before insisting that she squeeze her beefcurtains and strain every last drop of the precious man-muck from inside her choc-full clopper into a Tupperware container. Thankfully, she thought this was quite kinky, so didn’t ask any questions and was happy to oblige. She also kindly volunteered to go out and obtain additional samples of filthy fish juice for me to do with as I wished. Result!

As supplies grew ever shorter I spent days trawling the town looking for anything that could pass for baby paste. I remember not being able to mask my delight when I saw two Staffordshire bull terriers going at it like the clappers by a lamp-post; and I managed to crawl underneath them to collect the resulting splatter of dog yogurt with my trusty miniature thermos flask. Fortunately, it only required a modicum of testicular massage from me to make the male spurt, but unfortunately I was then noticed by the heat-ridden bitch ‘mid-hump’, and she proceeded to bite part of my nose off with some ferocity. I still managed to make it away with the precious bounty though, and it went straight into a Steak Diane sauce that very evening.

But it still wasn’t enough…I even volunteered to help the local farmer with menial tasks, and in my spare time I spent countless hours following the animals round with an oversized bucket, weapons grade safety goggles and a pair of ultra thick rubber gloves over my wanking spanners. Before long I had gallons of purest cock custard.

But as my talent (and ego) expanded, the demand became insatiable…and so did the pressure.

It should have been my finest hour when the judge from Michelin arrived to sample my famous 'Flayed Swordfish with Guava Millefeuille'…but no matter how hard I sorrowfully spanked my spluff-shooter, I remained completely cack out of tallywaggle torpedos. I was about to bleakly admit that the game was up.

Then…thinking fast, I remembered that I had one last sample in the fridge from my ‘Finest’ collection – The special test-tube where I would deposit my super-gloop after thinking about Girls Aloud whilst feverishly fwapping to ‘Caught in a Mosh’ by Anthrax.

I served the dish with a smile (and a limp), but I had nothing to worry about…the Michelin star was mine.

Yet as is so often the way, my success was short lived.

I must admit that it was quite a relief when the health inspector finally caught me…I was stood on a chair strangling my slackening spam javelin into a bowl of lobster bisque. Despite all I had done for him, the restaurant manager took no pity on me and sacked me on the spot…but the joke was on him, for within 2 months of me being given my marching orders, the restaurant closed down as their menu seemed to suddenly lose it’s ‘personal touch’ and the customers stayed away in droves.

As for me, I tried to cash in on my new found fame and invested all my money opening a swanky coffee shop in town. Attempting to eclipse the previous success in my own ‘unique’ way, I decided to substitute the coffee beans for little winnetts of dried rabbit turd (I thought if it caught on it would be easier to get a regular supply).

To my lasting regret, the market for coffee that tastes like shit had already been cornered by Starbucks and I was soon made bankrupt.

But, unlike my signature 'Bernaise sauce', I wasn't bitter, and nowadays life is much simpler. I currently work at the soup kitchens run by the local homeless charity...where nobody seems to give a flying toss what I do to the food. This has led to my losing the thrill of adding my special 'tang' to the punter's unsuspecting stomachs.

In fact, I’m already thinking of moving on and ‘experimenting’ again…maybe someday soon I can reclaim my former glories…

So you never know…the next 'chef' employed at your favourite pub / restaurant / works canteen…it could be me...if you’re lucky...;)


Bon appétit
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 10:32, 12 replies)

Contains food and sabotage - but - in a different way
I was with a girl for eight years. She meant the world to me and she made me the happiest man in the universe - well - that was until the day I found out she had been shagging her boss behind my back. I was devasted. Completely cut in half. Broken.

Fast forward two months, she goes off on holiday and I am in our house clearing the last of my stuff out. I was clearing under the bed I pulled out our box of erm "Toys" to get to box of junk.

I could physically hear my brain wurr into action.

Off I ran to the supermarket and purchased a packet of Scotch Bonnet chillies. These fuckers looked hot, very hot.

Once back home I covered each one in cling film and let them sweat in the sun for a few hours. I then cut them in half and made sure her rampant rabbit was given a liberal coating of pure fire. I let that coating dry and repeated, and repaeted and repeated. Each time the chillie fluid dried to an invisible layer of heat ray death.

One week later I had a phone call from the Ex. She was screaming and crying and swearing. It was safe to say she wasnt in a great mood.

"Whatevers the matter" I said (through laughter)
"AAAHHH MOOOTHHERR FUCKER IT BURNS" she poetically replied
"Oh dear...What burns"
"You mother fucker.....ahhhhhhhhh"
"sounds painful - I have to go now - good day" I laughed so hard I almost fainted

According to a friend - it took several baths and a yogurt douche to stop the flames - but - the bit that made the story for me was that she wasnt using it in a "self love" way. Her boss had used it on her. When she started screaming he thought she was cumming so pushed it in further and further.
( KISS.ME.WHERE.I.POO Signed the sex offenders register on, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 11:44, 22 replies)

Banana worm
You can poke dry spaghetti in to the bottom of an unpeeled banana so that it slides all the way up the inside. Leave it in the banana overnight, and the moisture turns the spaghetti soft-ish. Wait for your unsuspecting housemate/family member/local greedy glutton to start eating, and, wow! They think they've eaten part of some crazy ass tropical worm! Get it right and you can tell them it was a tape worm! Do it quick and you too can have a funny story to enter, but you may need to run fast when they find out....
( Jimbuktu See? Right here, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 23:15, 5 replies)

Anyone for tea?
I realise that reading this, coupled with my previous 'office fun' related post, may make me look a bit of a bastard.

Oh well...

One company I worked for, I worked closely with two other blokes - one of them was one of the nicest and most inofensive people you could hope to meet. Our working days were filled with the usual office humour and piss-taking, all very good natured and spread around us evenly.

Apart from the tea.

Cliffy, for that is one of his nicknames, was very polite - he found it nigh-impossible to say no to things. We used to take it in turns between us to use the little kitchen on our floor to get the drinks in. It was all free tea/coffee with all the sugar/milk/creamer/whatever supplied - plus a little fridge to keep cans of drink etc.

One day, Cliffy made a vague comment about how there was no sugar in his tea - but it was ok, he'd drink it anyways. He prefered it with one sugar, but he didn't mind drinking it however it came, thankyouverymuch.

It was like he had opened the gates of Gehenna...
From that day on, normally at least once a day, we would make sure that one of his teas was a 'special' one.
From memory he had:-

Black tea - no milk
Strong tea - 5 teabags and very little milk
Salty tea - salt instead of sugar
Cold tea - cold water
Coffee tea - tea with added spoonfulls of coffee
Fruit juice tea - fruit juice instead of water
Biscuit tea - tea with 3 digestives disolved in it
Butter tea - tea with butter smeared around the inside of the cup first
Marmite tea - a healthy dollop of marmite at the bottom of the cup
Vodka tea - a miniature bottle of vodka topped off with tea
Sugary tea - filled the cup with sugar and just barely topped it up with tea
Raisin tea - filled the cup with raisins and just barely topped it up with tea
Milk tea - filled the cup with milk and just barely topped it up with strong tea

and my personal favourites

Solid tea - tea with an entire packet of gelatin in it, which I left to set in the fridge overnight

Explosive tea - an lively little brew which used a cut-down polystyrene cup as a false bottom to the cup, with a tiny hole pierced in it. A normal cup of tea was poured into the cup, which contained baking soda underneath the false bottom. The tea was carefully and quickly carried to his desk, and just as he went to pick it up - litterally foamed all over the place.

To his credit, and my everlasting admiration, he drank each and every one of them - apart from the explosive tea. He even had two spoonfulls of the solid tea, before we let him off.
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:28, 4 replies)

Vegetarian Surprise
I'll skip the details of how it happened, except to say that this answers the question everyone's been asking me lately (i.e., "Why'd you break up with Rachel?"), but my annual "Thanksgiving for folks who can't or don't want to be with their families" dinner was invaded by vegetarians. Normally, I don't have a problem with other peoples' affectations, or at least it's completely tacit: they think I'm a brute, I think they're ponces, so we each do our own separate things and make snide remarks about each other afterward.

... the apotheosis of my relationship with humanity.

But it's completely egregious to show up at a dinner party, of all things, and announce your silly little lifestyle choice, then behave like a complete ass when you're not instantly accommodated. While the rest of us sat down to dinner, the vegetarians opted to stay in the living room polish off the zakuski, and engage in a loud conversation about anal electrocution and the horrors of veal. If anyone had seemed offended by Rachel's guests, I'd probably have put a stop to it, but the rest of them were my guests, who probably wouldn't have put down their forks even if a steer were slaughtered in the kitchen and butchered on the sideboard between courses.

That's why I call them my "friends"

After dinner, everyone regroups in the living room, and is sympathetically over-emphatic about how much they've enjoyed the evening. Things really begin to light up when someone asks about the white bean paté with sun-dried tomatoes that the vegetarian pair had completely devoured. "Those weren't tomatoes. It was bacon." The recipe, which I related with gusto, uses a full pound of it — the grease is used to flavor the dip, and the bacon is only partially cooked so it stays moist and chewy.

... and it gets better.

The various bowls and plates the vegetarians had emptied contained, among other things, onions sautéed in rendered duck fat, vegetables soaked in vinaigrette that was seasoned with pulverized anchovies, a tomato compote containing beef stock and, best of all, a lumpy soup made from goose blood and bone marrow. The vegetarians went green — and one of them puked a little bit, just enough to puff his cheeks, which he promptly swallowed, probably hoping that nobody would notice. But everyone did. When Peter pointed out that he'd swallowed meat twice, he went off like a geyser.

People cheered.

I was kept kind of busy with a couple of bath towels and a whole lot of lemon-scented Lysol, so I didn't notice when they left — but I'm pretty sure it was a hasty exit. Rachel went with them, and didn't come back until two days later to pick up her things. Monday at the office, everyone who'd attended tells me it was the best Thanksgiving they ever had.

... go figger.

Note: may not be my story
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:51, 12 replies)

School Childrens Flights
I used to work, as a Corporal in the Army, back in the 90's in an RAF base in Germany. Every school children’s holiday in England, would see a couple of flights full of Army brats, who had been carted off to boarding school in the UK, come for a holiday with their parents in Germany.

Imagine the intelligence level required to get into some of these infantry regiments, then imagine the type of women attracts to such foreheads, then imagine the offspring the produce.

Anyhow, the inbound flights were a piece of cake. Flight lands, kiddies run up to mummy and daddy and disappear, or they get on their respective coaches to far distant garrisons and are out of there, Simple.

The return flights are another matter however. Parents sick of the sight of the kids dump them at the airport hours before the plane and leave them with you as the baby sitter. And some of these kids are spoilt rotten. It was a real problem not to want to whack some of the little retards.

Anyhow, onto the food subject. There used to be a big bucket of boiled sweets, that we used to hand out to the littler kiddies, the 5 and 6 year olds, to calm them down, occupy them, and pump them up with sugar an hour before the flight, Let the RAF sort them out on the aircraft.

One of the Sergeants on the Det used to like to pilfer the bucket, having a sweet tooth. So we thought we'd use that to our advantage and have a laugh on him. Nipping into the NAAFI we bought 10 packets of Chocolate laxatives, about 6 bars per packets all silver foil wrapped, and pilled these little chocolate bars on top of the sweetie pile. Low and behold the Sergeant snaffles a few of these bars and after half an hour disappears. Grins all around. Then we realise we have couple of dozen of these little bars left, so we hand them out to all the kids. All of them are gone with just 15 minutes before boarding time left.

We didn’t see the result, but imagine. An aircraft with 200 screaming school kids on-board, between 5 and 16 years old, with only 2 toilets for an hour long flight.

Our compatriots on the other end at Stanstead rang us up and told us of the reaction when the flight landed. On opening the aircraft door a solid wall of shit laden air caused a few airport workers to up chuck right there and then. Kids emerging with violent diarrhoea running out their jeans and shorts., and other kids covered in puke from the smell.

I think they put it down to food poisoning from sandwiches sold in the NAFFI. We never did tell anyone the real reason. :-)
( ratman, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 6:43, 11 replies)

I have no idea why I'm making this one public.
I fucking love queefs. I think they are absolutely brilliant and hilarious and the best things in the world. So imagine my joy when I started dating a girl who could queef on command!

So one day she's telling me about how she can do this, and actually demonstrates how she can draw air into her thingywotsit. Seriously, it looked like a gummy old man trying to whistle.

I then happen to notice an untouched glass full of coke on her bedside table with a straw in it.

...well, I'd be crazy not to suggest it wouldn't I?

And so it came to pass that I am lying collapsed on the floor, having the mother of all asthma attacks from laughing, almost literally, my guts out as this amazing young lady blows bubbles in the coke using her ladybits.

And after? She gave it to her sister, and apologised that she'd already sipped the straw. Her sister told her off for leaving it "slobbery".

Not sure how long this will stay up until I feel icky and delete it...
(GONEism, Sat 20 Sep 2008, 22:45, 6 replies)

Mrs Thatcher
I rubbed my cock on Mrs T's new spectacles, which I had just made. Not food or tea, but I just need to tell everyone.
My life-long socialist Father cried with pride when I told him.

She wore them for years too
(BigAndyBee, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 10:49, 5 replies)

A couple of years ago
I was living abroad and working in a restaurant in between copious amounts of casual sex with drunken scrubbers on hen nights and a large amount of heavy drinking and recreational drug abuse.

This one week there was this Scottish couple that came in and I have never come across such a pair of obnoxious cunts. They seemed to think that the world owed them everything. They were rude to every member of staff and whinged constantly about their food and how long it took. Basically, utter, utter twats.

I spotted them in the resort the next day, they were obviously on holiday with their kids and a bunch of their friends.

Later in the week them and their friends returned to the restaurant and I just knew I was going to have to do something to cheer myself up after fixed grinning at them and fawning over their every whim.

So I waited until they were tucking into their starters and sneaked out of the restaurant and down the street and bit to where I had noticed they were staying.

One of the windows of the apartment was open, so I sneaked in, strangled their eldest daughter, took the corpse back to the kitchen and minced the little fucker into their tapas.

The whole incident kind of got out of hand once the press got involved. Still, I managed to get rid of the remains without anyone noticing.
(Bazongaloid, Sun 21 Sep 2008, 19:13, 6 replies)

When my grandad was still alive
mum was his primary caregiver although she was working full time.
He had bone cancer and was in a lot of pain in his last year, to the extent that he'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night.

So, mum did what all good children do.

She put weed in his food a couple of times a week - pain reduced and grandad got a good nights sleep.
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:54, 9 replies)

Military College
Sorry for, once again, drawing on my years of suffering at a Southern *(US) Military College, but frankly, this is a PERFECT QOTW!

So, as a Freshman/Underclassman at a University which PRIDES itself on the "Fourth Class System" (beating up Freshman/Knobs in order to create the 'Whole Man' that the college claimed to create), there comes a point where a young man reaches his breaking point.

I reached mine just shortly after returning from Christmas Break. South Carolina is relatively 'cool' in the winter. Not frigid like Alaska or Boston, but cold enough that we tended to wear our corduroy robes to the bathroom when we had already shed the uniform of the day. We also typically wore 'shower shoes' or 'flip flops' as the civilians call them.

So, after having endured 4 months of Upperclassmen overseeing us opening our 'care packages' from home and helping themselves, I and several of my classmates had had enough. We devised a plan, which not entirely 'unique' was, sadly, unique enough for the Upperclassmen in our company to fall for:

We baked Brownies with a CONSIDERABLE amount of laxative in them. (in case you lot know the brand, it was Ex-Lax)

For those of you 'well read' you may well have read the book "The Lords of Discipline." This was a novel written about MY college...in fact, it was 'suggested reading' for ANY cadet planning on metriculating at this fine institution. So, the story I am about to relate, is, sadly, not 'unique' but IS unique to MY experience.

Upperclassmen, despite their 'advanced years' are NOT particularly bright. And having baked the brownies with enough laxative to make an elephant on a diet of cheese and rice run to the gentleman's room, and THEN, sending them through the MAIL, from the very same city in which the college in question was located made ZERO difference.

We shipped them to a classmate. And he made a big 'to do' about bringing them into the Battalion, where we all lived. Upperclassmen came out of the woodwork to inspect said package and pilfer more than one brownie. Fortunately, we had the foresight to bake enough for about 50 cadets. We even saw to it to include a hand written note saying "We baked enough for your classmates, so make sure you share."

The upperclassmen enjoyed the brownies. It was almost too laughable to report. They gobbled them down as if we were in a combat zone and those were the LAST brownies they would ever eat.

About an hour and a half later, we heard the doors in the Battalion opening and slamming shut as SEVERAL of the supposedly 'more intelligent' Upperclassmen made the mad dash to the bathroom.

However, they didn't realize, us Freshman had taken Herculean steps to make sure their evening was particularly memorable:

In the bathrooms (it was an all-male college) we had taken 'Heel and Sole dye' (a black liquid we used to dye the heels and soles of our shoes to make them VERY black and 'extra' shiney) and colored the toilet seats. We had also added a healthy coating of Saran Wrap or "Cling Film" over the toilets themselves. Then, we un-wound the light bulbs so they wouldn't light up the area in question. (we were devious AND well-read little bastards)

The resulting insanity left several supposedly 'more intelligent' upperclassmen with PITCH BLack arses AND brown stains along their thighs/robes.

I paid for that...as did SEVERAL of my classmates (all of them in fact) but you know what? I would GLADLY do it again with the threat of the resulting beatings as a warning. Those bastards DESERVED trying to take a shit, having the liquid result splattering ALL over their 'kit' and leaving the restroom with a LARGE black circle on their arses.

I do NOT apologize!

Sic Semper Tyrranis!

Citadel
( Citadel Because the world needs less morons, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 8:58, 11 replies)

I've never sabotaged anyone's food.
And never will.
( Spider Fucking Riviera got stiches for a knife wound for the first time, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 23:46, 6 replies)

Jolene
Just a quick one.

There is always one idiot in the office that brings their own coffee to drink. Well ‘Jolene’ was that lady. She had slighted me over some bizarre mix up with an invoice, so quick as a flash (over a number of weeks) me and some lads from work started to substitute her special la-di-da coffee with de-caffeinated coffee.

On the final Friday of our plan (4 weeks later) we re-substituted her original coffee and put a whole ground up pack of pro-plus in the sugar (of which she had her normal 6 spoons).

By 10:30am the office manager had to ask her to go home because she was furiously dusting everyone’s monitor singing Journey and refusing to stop.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 15:53, 3 replies)

"of course it's Linda McCartney..."
I'm not a vegetarian - let's just make that clear. I have canine teeth and, given that we don't have a second stomach required for chewing the cud, I am firmly in the "say yes to meat" camp.

However, I have known a few vegetarians in my time and most are pretty laid back - they don't make a show of preaching the PETA meat-is-murder-milk-is-poison nonsense and, aside from being a bit pasty looking, they are sound people. However, just as there is always one bad apple in any barrel, there is always one militant Veggie that will ruin a nice evening to claim the Guardian-reading moral high ground.

Well one such numpty turned up at a barbecue I was holding. He wasn't invited, but he was the friend of my wife's friend and I didn't mind. Right up until we had the whole "You must use a separate grill for my food because I don't want it tainted with dead carcass" lecture.

Now, I am a firm believer in the idea that if, out of a desire to be a good host, I am supposed to provide a veggie with a non-meat meal, it is only right that they should return the favour if I eat at their place, or at least they should be pleasant to the person who is putting them up and feeding them. But no, this emaciated ponce was doing his best to ruin the party and make 15 other guest feel uncomfortable by ranting about the evils of the Ribeye steaks that were sizzling on the grill. But the most vengeance went to the burgers - he made up all sorts of crap about how they were mainly filler, rat and hoof (despite my wife and I making them from home-minced steak that day) and generally getting up my nose. So, after drinking four of my beers he presents me with a box of Linda McCartney/Quorn FakeBurgers and his pompous instructions on how to cook them.

On his departure to the lounge (presumably to harrass the other guests), I threw them in the bin, cooked him two burgers well done, put them in buns, with cheese and sauce and handed them over. He scarfed the lot, whilst saying how nice they were and how we should all try these veggie burgers as we wouldn't miss meat. Meanwhile, I was curled up on my kness on the patio crying with laughter. Along with the three other vegetarians at the party, who were horrified by his behaviour.

I'm a bad, bad man...
(Chad, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:07, 13 replies)

I'll remind her of this as I finally throttle her....
Sort of the other way around. Ish.

Back in the ultra-carnivore hunter-gatherer days, come the end of the season I would have a fair selection of God's Creatures nestling in my freezer, and I would hold a mass scoffing session for my nearest and dearest chums to clear it out.

There could be pheasant, partridge, venison, bunny wabbit, pigeon, trespassers, you name it and it was lurking in the icy embrace, sometimes looking rather surprised. Anyway, when you have assorted portions of cute lickle animals, the easiest way to clear the decks is with the famous game casserole.

Now to do this properly, each ingredient has to be treated differently, as they all have different cooking characteristics. Some need marinading in good red wine with juniper berries and peppercorns, some lightly browned in olive oil with a smidge of garlic, some just need a quick rub of sea salt and a light touch of dried herbs to be all ready.

The seasonings must be assembled in their savoury ranks, awaiting their turn in the masterwork. Fresh herbs, exotic spices, pungent and nose-tickling ingredients by the dozen, lovingly collected, and each with it's own special role to play. A bottle of the finest wine was decanted to breath the air, a bottle of Chateau Special Offer was opened to keep the cook interested, and a can of posh catfood to keep the hairy scavengers busy gobbling away at their end of the kitchen. Planning, see?

And the stock. Aah, the stock. The crucial element, where flavours develop over the long, cool cooking process, where the consistency thickens and concentrated the savour,aroma and all-round 'fuck-me-that's-good'ness.

A previous meal had involved a juicy, tender leg of venison, lovingly removed from an unexpectedly deceased Muntjac Deer (unexpected from his point of view, that is). The bone, filled with rich, savoury marrow was reserved as the base for the stock of emperors. A handful of fresh bayleaves, bouquet garni, redcurrants, juniper berries, and other things to esoteric to mention splashed merrily into the pot. Flavoursome veggies, fine full-bodied wine, organic garlic, LBV port to name but a few joined them. And then it was consigned to the flames, for many hours. Cooked, reduced, strained through muslin, re-vitalised with more liquid, reduced again until we had a stock so good that a Michelin Inspector would have taken it home and gone to bed with it. Perfection.
Just let it cool off while I have a refreshing flagon or two, and then it's cooking time. Rubbing my hands with glee, muttering 'this is going to be fan-bloody-tastic', I retired to take the weight off my plates for a few well deserved minutes, before resuming cooking for ten hungry bods.

And then She happened. She who must be ignored, the Domestic Obergruppenfuhrer, the Boss, the Light of My Life.

She decided to help.

Said help involved doing the washing up, so I would have lots of uncluttered space to complete the culinary miracle, while she laid the table, re-decorated the house, laid a tiled floor and all the other little things that are apparently essential when receiving guests into one's abode.

I ambled back into the kitchen, to be greeted by everything clean and shiny, all the tools racked and gleaming, and all the pans clean and......

Wait one second.

ALL the pans clean and shiny?

"WHERE is the stock?"

"You mean that dirty water........."

Steely eyed, I maintained my semi-psychotic, verging on hysterical gaze, as with one hand I reached out for the bottle, and took a steadying slurp. *Gak* Fuck, wine vinegar. This time I looked, and managed to get soothing alcohol aboard.

"That DIRTY WATER, dear was the stock that I have been preparing for, for AAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHH" I Arrrrrrgghed.

My gaze now flickered between my dear, rather worried wife, the handy knife/dismembering tool rack, and the fucking stock cubes.

Stock cubes.

*Weeps*



I no longer kill the Bambis, so she missed out on the one and only, never to be repeated opportunity.
(osok Rebel without a clue, Tue 23 Sep 2008, 14:31, 17 replies)

The Christian Union
During my brief flirtation with Christianity at university (her name was Wendy and she had a heavenly rack), I occasionally visited the Christian Union for one of their non-alcoholic soirees. On one such evening, I was put in charge of the catering and decided to have a bit of fun.

Soft drinks were the only kind available: orange squash, Vimto and diet Coke. But I had smuggled a milk bottle of alcohol from home. Not just any alcohol, but pure alcohol made from potatoes in a copper still by my Ukranian housemate. He'd put a homemade label on the bottle reading "Uwaga! Smierc" - or, "Attention! Death!" This was the brand name. I divided the whole bottle evenly between the soft drinks and retired to a safe distance.

Within about ten minutes, Theobald (the skeletal biology PhD) was humping the lectern and Deborah (the owlish treasurer) waa twirling her voluminous underpants about her head while flashing a (burning) bush of arboreal proportions to all assembled. After about half an hour, the homophobic accountancy student Gerald was vogueing to Belinda Carlisle with his shirt tied off to reveal his midriff.

So far so good, I thought. Then some arrogant tosser (Caleb - the Texan fruitcake) asked me for a milkshake. We didn't have any milk and I would have had to run to the campus supermarket to get some, but he insisted. So I asked myself what Jesus would have done. And the answer was: "Buy the fucking milk and then do a shit in it."

I handed the tall glass to Caleb, who immediately noticed the tapered end of my still-steaming log emerging from the milk. "What's that!?" he yelped.

"It's chocolate. From a tube," I said. "If it smells like last night's biryani, that's only because it's fair trade and made by Christan cocoa workers in Bethlehem."

That was all the promting he needed, and the turd slipped down his gullet without a protest. Never mind that he was later rushed to hospital with a serious bacterial infection and mild brain damage.

Later, I encouraged Wendy to suck 'condensed milk' through a girthy straw while wearing a blindfold. She said it tasted "a bit off", bless her.
(frankspencer, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 9:24, 3 replies)

Kaol and the tale of the Mouse Omelette
First of all, I'm a lovely person. I'm afraid, however, that we all do things from time to time that makes us seem like a cunt.
This is one of mine...

A couple of years ago, I was living with a fellow student called "Mike".
Now, Mike was a scummy bastard, there's no other way to describe it.

He took two showers that I'm aware of the whole year I was living with him.
He never seemed to wash his clothes.
He managed to get our house invaded by ants, which came through the door, up the stairs, past my room and into his.
His bedroom smelt foul. Fouler than a Musk Ox's ring-piece.

All of those things, however, I could deal with.

What I couldn't deal with was him stealing my food.
I was scraping money the whole time I was at uni, to the point that some weeks I'd be eating cous-cous and tinned tomatoes and not much else.
His parents were paying for everything for him, including a hundred pounds a week "going out" money...
So why the fuck did he have to keep stealing my food?

His worst habit was stealing left-overs. If I made a chilli, I'd make fucking loads of it, freeze it and then leave a portion to defrost in the fridge for the next day.
About half of the time my meal would "mysteriously vanish".
It was just the two of us in the house, and he'd deny it.

So one day I decided to get my own back.

I made two wonderful cheese, mushroom and bacon omelettes, ate one, and put the other into the fridge.

The next day it was gone.

What he'll never know is the glowing sense of satisfaction that he'd eaten an omelette made of dead baby mice.

You see, I had a snake. This snake ate baby mice, so I had a box in the freezer full of them.
Mouselings don't have any fur, so they're pink and look a lot like foetuses.

I took a large handful, removed and discarded the heads, chopped up the bodies into cubes and shallow-fried them.

So that's the story of how my dirty, thieving housemate ate dead mice.
( Cawl, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 9:38, 14 replies)

Unintentional sabotage
Whenever the subject of food or cooking comes up, my girlfriend always delights in recalling the same batch of stories to anyone and everyone who hasn't heard them before (and some who have), so I figure it's probably best that I compile them in written form in an attempt to over expose them until they lose all power. Much like the Moby album Play.

I'm not a fussy man when it comes to food or drink. Sure I can appreciate a well made meal or a fine wine, but as a speed-eating consumption monster whose digestion system often performs the task most people leave for the teeth, I can also happily eat food others would probably turn their nose up at. Tinned curry? Sign me up! Microwaved burgers? Let me at 'em! Four day old soup that gave me food poisoning so bad that I can no longer look at butternut squash the same way, I really should have suspected something from the smell when I microwaved it? Ding ding ding! So without further ado here are the albatrosses.

The curry

It was my second year at university, and my diet was unhealthily balanced towards slap-it-in-the-oven type meals. I had not bothered spending the time learning to cook properly and until the point where I had to cook something for my girlfriend it hadn't been a problem. I found myself to be a lenient judge of my culinary prowess. That was the night I discovered why people don't make minced beef kormas.

The garlic

It was Valentine's Day and I'd spent most of the day tidying the flat (fucking student housemates) for a great romantic evening with my girlfriend. I'd found some fancy asparagus related dish online and had bought every one of the composite ingredients to ensure it tasted fantastic. Not even skimping on the touch of whatever herb which I so inevitably didn't already own. I wanted to ensure the evening was a good one. A bottle of white wine beyond my budget was chilling in the fridge. Flowers and petals et al adorned the dining room. The Gotan Project's La Revancha del Tango set the aural ambience. Scented candles disguised the cocktail of odours an all male student flat creates. All that was left to do was to scrub myself up and get cooking, though I'd not left myself much time to do so. After a manic preparation following the cooking instructions to the letter, all was well and when my girlfriend arrived she was most impressed by the efforts I'd made. The ground work was done and now I could relax and enjoy my fine lady's company. Everything was going well, but as talked and enjoyed the wine, there was a bell ringing in my head that had bothered me whilst I was doing the cooking. Normally I'd have contacted someone to put my mind at rest, but I was rushed for time and couldn't contact my usual source (my girlfriend) as I wanted it all to be a surprise. Eventually I could wait no more and had to ask.

"Is a clove of garlic one of the little bits or the whole thing?"

Well, turns out it was just one of the little bits. Who'd have thought it? The big thing is called a bulb, which kind of makes sense when you consider the shape. Huh. To make matters worse, I'd found peeling the garlic and chopping it into pieces had taken so long, that I needed to take shortcuts to get the dish ready in time. The result of this was little bits of garlic skin and huge chunks of garlic floating in the cream sauce. We ate it anyway, my girlfriend probably out of sympathy for the efforts that I'd gone to and me because, well, see above.

The bolognese

I don't put the effort into cooking all that often so when I do, I see it as an excuse to get experimental. My girlfriend has gotten to the point where she fears leaving the room while cooking these days as often something has changed in the time when she's gone*. The most frequent addition to dishes tends to be wine, chili and/or tarragon. Mainly because I like all three, but anything in the cupboard is worth a try as long as it's not going to curdle.

The bolognese incident was a result of one of these experiments where I discovered that when you run out of onions, pickled onions are not an acceptable equivalent.



* I'd like to point out that this isn't some fifties, sexist relationship, I do my fair share of keeping the flat tidy and clean, particularly when it comes to living with a human hurricane.
( ma0sm, Mon 22 Sep 2008, 15:47, 6 replies)

One more from my waiting days...
We had this regular customer, a right fat bastard.

He would, seriously, eat everything on the menu.

He'd gorge himself silly.

He was rude and obnoxious.

A dirty, obnoxious, foul looking slob.

And his manners were appalling.

He'd spray food everywhere.

He'd end up with it in his moustache, down his front, in his lap.

The table was a disaster zone. Food everywhere.

He was an animal.


So, I can say, feeling entirely guilt free that he got everything he deserved...

...when I gave him that wafer thin mint.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 17:50, 7 replies)

I've just remembered another one...
A couple of mates of mine and my brother's decided it would be funny, while preparing a bowl of cereal for breakfast at another friends house, to lace it with some dry cat food.

It was utterly foul.

My brother - the victim of the prank - walked over to give the 'mates' a slap and subtly sneaked a peak at the ingredients, picked a chemical at random and casually said, "I hope it doesn't have DL-methionine in it! I'm REALLY allergic to that!"

'Mates' check out the ingredients list, start to look panicked, and let my brother know that yes, it does.

We left shortly after that.

Moler (one of the mates) phoned up later to make sure he was ok, we saw that it was him phoning and were in the car with our dad at the time. We quickly explained what had happened, gave the phone to my dad and told him to improvise.

He did a sterling job, telling Moler that we were on the way to the hospital because my brother was 'desperately ill'. He starts apologising to my dad, who says, "look James, I've not really got time to talk about this right now" and hangs up the phone. Well funny.

We later found out that Moler had thrown up shortly after the phone call through shear guilt. Oh how we lolled.
(MrKipling43, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:42, 3 replies)

The worst thing you can do to a person?
Last week, I returned home late from work to find that some motiveless maniac had raped and tortured my family with rusty razors before viciously slaughtering them with assorted gardening implements.

As I dropped to my knees to survey the atrocity around me I noticed that this vile, sadistic, soulless killer had left his blood-splattered wallet on the floor, which contained his driving licence, and therefore his full name and address.

I know I should have gone straight to the police, but I wasn't thinking rationally...and my mind was filled only with thoughts of purest revenge and hate.

So that very night, in the pitch blackness, I quietly broke into his house while he slept upstairs...and I'm afraid to say that in a fit of rage.....I went into his kitchen....and .......crushed all of his packets of crisps, whilst making it look like they were fine on the outside.

every.single.packet.

I then left, safe in the knowledge that for the forseeable future, every time he opened a packet he would be presented with nothing but a virtual wispy cloud of powdered crispy hideousness.


I think justice was done.




Before you all have a go at me...I know it was harsh and nobody deserves that...but like I said, I wasn't thinking rationally
(Mr Twisty Cheeky The worst kept secret in B3ta..., Tue 23 Sep 2008, 17:30, 6 replies)

Poo. Lots and lots of poo...
For want of a better explanation, my circle of friends can be utter cunts at the best of times. Nothing horrific or painfully scarring, but just utter cunts for no other reason than it mostly amuses us.

With this out of the way, I bring you a story that is simply 'laxalicious'..... ahem....

My friend, who we shall call 'Adam', had met a girl whilst on holiday who was, to steal R. Jimlad's expression from last week, a bit of a butterface. Well a lot actually. Not only this, but she was fucking nauseating to try and hold a conversation with, as it invariably tended to revolve around her and how awesome she was. As well as this, she had previously shown she was nuts. She stole 2 bottles of Jack Daniels from the house before she last left 'for the road' as she later said in an email, called one of my friends a cunt in the pub and slapped him really fucking hard, because he knocked over a drink by accident into her handbag. Amongst other things she showed us she was a cunt and an oxygen thief.

All in all nobody really liked her at all, including Adam, who wold often complain about her, before giving in to his penis' demands and allowing her to stay over for a weekend.

Anyways, one weekend she was pencilled in the calender to make an appearance so my friends decided to hatch a plan to help out Adam with his lady troubles, and being the friends they are, help to diffuse the relationship in the best possible manner.

That's right, spike their food with a fuckload of laxatives. Somewhat lacking in the creativity department I know but absolutely certain to bring entertainment.

So the day comes and his housemate, Ryan cooks a big slap up curry for everyone in the house, and whilst dishing, it out laces the unlucky duo's plates with the offending material.

Little did we know, Ryan decided to put it in everything. in the curry, the rice, the beers, sprinkled on the popadums, probably even the serviettes and silverware if he knew how. He used one of those sheets of Senakot for two people. Unfortunately, only my friend Adam ate it, as she complained that 'it tastes off'. Damn. Oh well, still one left.

As the night rolls on, in the club Adam feels some funny rumblings, followed by a swift change in the colour of his complexion and a mad dash for the loos. This carried on all night, with Adam trying extremely hard not to look like he was regularly shitting himself, making excuses on the dancefloor etc.

The journey home was a bit of a giggle, as the drunken banter continued between a few of us, with Adam still trying desperately to look like he was enjoying himself. You know the look, nervous laughter every now and then with swift glances here and there looking for an escape route.

Back at the house, after more trips to the toilet, the couple decided to make a move for the privacy of the bedroom. I have to say, at this point the look on Adam's face was one of apprehension, to say the least. I'd say he was shitting himself but....

Anywho. After about half an hour, he's heard using the toilet again, and again, and again. Just when we think he's finally crapped his last, we hear the scream.

Oh yes. You see, instead of telling the girl that he wasn't in the best of shapes to be pumping her full of man batter, he decided to
get on with the job. This backfired greatly, literally even, when after a while of holding in what I can only imagine to be a bowel clenching vesuvius of an anal announcement, he could clench no longer and let out the offending air biscuit.

Followed by a fountain of shit.

Seriously, his bed looked like he'd fired a shitty hosepipe from one end to the other.

She cleaned herself and after calming down enough to pack her things, promptly fucked off at 3 in the morning to catch a coach home, no doubt dying inside a little each minute extra that she stayed in the house.

She text later the next day to say how they probably shouldn't see each other again...

To this day, he still blames it on dodgy chicken in the curry and I still fear for Ryan's legs if he ever finds out the truth.

Length? about 4 feet of poop.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 14:04, 6 replies)

The bad shrooms
Things would often go missing from the fridge in our dorms - mostly my stuff, as I actually cooked and therefore kept myself well stocked with essentials such as milk and veg etc. I'm also allergic to everything, so had goats milk instead of normal moo milk. It'd piss me off when this mysteriously dripped away over about a day, but there was little I could do about it, and it wasn't like I'd put much effort into actually producing it myself. No, what was annoying was when foods I'd prepared myself would get snaffled. It takes quite a little time to make a good mushroom sauce, and this would regularly go missing. I had an idea.

I've always been into mushrooms. Not the hallucinogenic ones, more the wild mushrooms which sprout from the most unexpected places almost overnight and taste a thousand times better than any of the watery white rubbish you get in the supermarkets. Whole armies of pale, ethereal umbrellas in the undergrowth. I would regularly go out in pick them from the parks ad footpaths, and my room was filled with strings of dried mushrooms hanging from the ceiling, turning gently in the draft from under the windowsill. On one particular mushroom-hunting journey, I came across a mushroom which would be instrumental to my revenge.

The common shaggy ink cap. They grow all over the place, and I'd found a large clump. Now if you look these up in a book, it may well tell you that they're edible. Another book will tell you that they're quite poisonous and you should avoid them. Others are more ambiguous - so what's going on?

The shaggy ink cap is actually delicious - it has a wonderfully rich, intense mushroom flavour and will almost melt into anything you make, turing it a lovely inky black colour if you use some of the older, larger fruits. However, if you ingest alcohol for anything up to THREE DAYS after eating the mushrooms, you will experience severe side-effects which can include nausea, vomiting and heart palpitations. Nasty. Of course, I don't really drink much at all (just not my thing, it's not a matter of principle) so I would be fine, but if anyone nicked it, well, let's just say that there was an entire wall built out of empty beer cans in the kitchen.

That evening was interesting.
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 23:32, 6 replies)

At uni
People kept eating my food, so I put some poison in it and four people in my halls of residence were found dead around the fridge next morning.

They didn't do that again.
(frankspencer, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 17:20, 4 replies)

In me dad's old workplace
..in one of his first jobs he worked in a steelworks doing odd jobs with other workers. Everyone had a good healthy sense of humour (ie screaming "BALDIE!!!!" through the tannoy system at the foreman etc) but there was one guy who was simply a bully. Twas the late 60's/early 70's so bullying was strife and not directly nipped in the bud by management as it would be today. This guy used to get upto varying things, one of which was to throw his weight about at the canteen. My dad and his mates would get their dinner and sit on a table. Bastard would walk in, shout "Oih, I sit there!" and literally swipe all the metal plates off the table onto the floor. They only let him get away with this twice.

Me dad and his mates thought "fuck this for a laugh" and sneaked into the canteen early. They organised with the staff a prank, as the staff there were tired of cleaning up the food that the bastard was swiping onto the floor too. Then they played the waiting game.

In walks everyone on their lunch breaks and the bastard is there. He spies my dad and his mates munching away at the same table as before, and the bastard sees red.
"I fucking told you guys, I SIT THERE."
"Do you now?" says me dad, looking all confused.
He pushes my dad out of the way and swipes at the metal plates as hard as he could. CRUNCH. One confused look on the bastard's face as none of the plates budged and one trip to the hospital to deal with a broken arm.

Conclusion? Don't fuck off people who can weld.

Tis a pearoast for teh comp
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Thu 18 Sep 2008, 16:19, Reply)