I had to wash dishes for a year
Hundreds of the fuckers - I got to know every single piece of cutlery, and by the last week, you know what I did?

I STOLE MY FAVOURITE SPOON!!!

Oh yeah, that showed 'em, they never knew what hit 'em, yeah, one spoon down, hah! Take that, spoon under-appreciators!!!



...I think they won *sob*.
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 22 May 2008, 13:21, 4 replies)

Checkout time
I think I might have mentioned this one before:
went to a supermarket a few years ago (I think it was Sainsburies), when I reached the till, the tillwoman greeted me with "they've just sacked me" and only scanned one in every three items I'd picked up. I think my bigshop came in at about £15.
(ScousersPet, Thu 22 May 2008, 13:12, 2 replies)

The last time I worked for Zee Germanss...
...I was laid off rather abruptly, along with several others. As we had just had a lot of unpaid time off over the holidays, this really messed up my finances but good. Needless to say, I was not a happy Loon.

So on my way out the door for the final time, I stopped inside the stairwell that led to the executive floor and, in my best Hitler voice, screamed "Krauten raus!"

I don't know that it had any effect on anyone, but it sure made me feel better...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 22 May 2008, 13:06, Reply)

Just because we could
Many moons ago, whilst at uni, I had a god-awful job in a catalogue company with my partner, phoning people up and asking them if they wanted insurance on whatever overpriced crap they were paying off at 27% over 2 years. (I have no issue with people who need to do this for domestic appliances they can't afford, or kids' clothes, but a £3000 plasma!?)

Anyway, it was soul-destroying. We basically had to threaten people into buying this fucking awful,expensive 5 year cover with more clauses than the average department store at Christmas.

One day my dad rings me up and tells me he feels like he's having a heart attack. I panic and leave work with mr sam, notifying our boss (who depressingly was younger than me, and at 20 had a 6 year old son. Shudder). The next day, a Friday, he's OK but needs a scan so I email our boss telling her we won't be in. She replies 'NO PROBZ C U MONDAY' (illiterate twerp she was).

I get a call that afternoon from our agency (yes, the shame, it was agency work. Agencies, the cheapy labour/shite call centre type, are shit. If you work for an agency and you don't agree, you're just one of the lucky few who hasn't been fucked over yet) to tell us not to bother to come in on Monday as we were no longer required due to our 'unauthorised absence'.

My other half got rather mad at this point. He called our overall, big boss and started spouting lots of laws and using words like victimisation and lawyer. Big boss panics and invites us to 'discuss the matter' that Monday. Monday arrives and the manager gives us a long, grovelling apology, half an hour of real schmoozing, please-don't-sue, I-have-kids-to-feed etc. He then went right back up to the department and told the staff how he'd made a mistake and we'd be back the next day.

Next day rolls by and we quit :)
(Northern Lovely, Thu 22 May 2008, 13:06, Reply)

...and I'm taking you all with me!
[[email protected] /]# rm -rf /*
(Rich T has a clever and witty sig, Thu 22 May 2008, 13:03, 1 reply)

Last day at the last place I worked
The last place I worked had the best office environment ever. A smallish development silo for a massive global company, we were left to pretty much get on with our work as long as we kept our servers up and processing data. The office was smack bang in the middle of Cambridge so almost every lunchtime we went to one of the many surrounding pubs in walking distance.

On the sad day when I decided I'd had enough, myself and my hardcore bunch of workmates - who I'm still great friends with - went for one last lunchtime pub trip and go for The Record. The most number of alcoholic drinks consumed in one lunchtime was 6 pints. It would be tough but I liked a challenge. So we went to WTs where, at the time just a couple of years ago, IPA was £1.20 a pint before 18:00. Seven pints and a shot of whisky* later I returned to the office at 15:00 taking slightly longer than the allotted 1 hour for lunch.

In the end I was the only person on my floor to return so late. Concentrating as hard as I could to walk in a straight line, I managed to get back to my desk and sit down in front of my computer. Result! Nice, calm, restrained.

For no reason whatsoever I suddenly burst out laughing while the whole office looked over at a drunken, shirking loon.

The office administrator whose thankless task it was to spend the collection money on a thoughtful present for the departed came round a little later and handed me a lovely Bonsai tree.

"What the fuck do I want with a little tree!?" was not the most diplomatic thing I've ever said.

But the worst faux-pas for the office was that that very afternoon was when HR emailed me a bog-standard leavers' form asking why I chose to quit. I wasn't in the best state of mind to answer delicate questions about what was wrong with the company and promptly filled any text box entitled "Describe in your own words..." with huge, rambling bollocks saying that all my co-workers were amazing and that head office were a shower of cunts etc. Don't know quite what my ex-boss made of that but I've played football with him since and he didn't try to kill me.

So in conclusion I recommend that everyone get completely plastered on your last day of work. No really, it was brilliant!

* - it may be my national drink** but it's hideous, evil stuff
**- Actually, Irn-Bru is my national drink
( djtrialprice, Thu 22 May 2008, 13:00, 13 replies)

I once worked in a pet shop
but they were mean to me and I hated it so before I quit I masturbated in the staff room and god killed all the kittens.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:52, 4 replies)

The paper round thing
I had a teenage paper round, where a chain smoker known locally as Darth Vader (on account of his ceaseless 40-a-day-habit wheezing) paid me 50p a day to deliver newspapers.

I soon found, to my disgust, that the village's other newsagent paid their paperboys a whole, shiny pound per day, but Darth was adamant that "there are gasp plenty of other kids gasp willing to work gasp for peanuts, and you can gasp fuck right off gasp if you don't like it".

You didn't even get extra for Fridays, where everybody in the village got the Maidenhead Advertiser, a doorstop of a publication that never weighed in at less than 100 pages.

Well, sod that, I went and found myself a weekend job in a supermarket where I got to watch people having loads of sex, and worked out a week's notice for Darth.

Still pissed at his attitude, I gave everybody's paper to the house next door, and all the Advertisers went to the last house on the round, who just happened to be the village doctor.

I popped into Darth's shop the next day to pick up my money, just in time to see Dr Thomas storming out, veins bulging on his forehead in fury.

"You gasp cunt" said Darth. I didn't get paid, but I was already on Easy Street. One pound ten per hour. One pound fucking ten. Stick that in your pipe, Vader.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:52, 3 replies)

i used to work in a wholesale plant nursery
the boss was a complete bitch.

on the day i decided to quit i mixed up a good litre bottle of concentrated weed killer into the potting mix.
(softporn 70's sink fixer, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:45, Reply)

Man vs. Beast
I’d been doing my paper round from the age of thirteen. Three long years had passed since the first day that I strapped on the orange carry bag of my youthful entrepreneurial dreams. I had, in my mind, built empires from which my princely £10 a week would be constructed, and looked in to the future convinced that this would be the start of great, great things.

However, I had a nemesis. A thorn in my side, if you will. A Yorkshire Terrier.

Every day for three years I trudged around my route – down long lanes, up big hills, in rain, in snow, in ice, in wind – and every day this little bleeder made my morning a misery. Every single morning, without fail, as I slipped the paper through the letterbox the terrier would run down the hall, grab the paper from the other side, and tear it out of my hand.

This would invariably get me in trouble with Mrs. Patel, for delivering a torn paper. No matter how much I insisted the dog was to blame, the cost of each copy of The Sun ruined was always deducted from my wage.

So now I was down to (at most) £9.80 a week.

Over the years the dog would vary its attacks – sometimes biting my ankles, or leaping out of rose bushes, or just plain chasing me (at that point, I really didn’t like dogs); but it would always return to its favourite annoyance of biting the paper out of my hand, and losing me another 20p in to the bargain.

It came, eventually, to the time where being a paperboy wasn’t seemly. It wasn’t a good line to use to chat up girls in bars with – indeed, I couldn’t afford to go to bars because the fucking dog was doing me out of up to 10% of my wages every week. Over the coming week I hatched my plan.

As I approached the house, I quietly placed my bike on the floor. On my tiptoes, I crept up to the house, making sure I looked down the side to see the rear door closed. Approaching the front door like the SAS approached the Iranian Embassy (only with less explosives and guns), I glanced through the mottled glass window in the door, and saw the shape of the dog at the end of the hall, waiting for me.

I crouched down. Slowly, oh so very slowly, I opened the letterbox. Looking through, I saw the dog was still there. I poked the very tip of the paper through the slot. I watched as the dog leapt to its feet and grinned as it tore down the hallway.

And then, at the critical moment, I withdrew.

There was a light thud, and a small whimper. Flicking the letterbox up, I saw the dog running in the opposite direction, back to its basket.

Claiming victory, I returned to the newsagents. I quit there and then, realising that while I had won the battle, the dog had most certainly won the war.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:44, Reply)

My guilty pleasure
Is posting answers ten weeks late.
( Cawl, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:42, 5 replies)

In my last review
the withered old bitch who doles out the money scoffed - actually laughed - at my idea of what I should be earning and told me I wasn't THAT good a writer. A fortnight later the MD of a national communications company said I could name my price because my writing was THAT good.

Fuck off, withered bitch. Time to say goodbye.
(frankspencer, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:42, 6 replies)

Well there's flouncing and there's floucing...
and then theres this

Game over man, game over
( barryheadwound Mul-ti-pass? Multipass!, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:41, 1 reply)

I didn't quit but I sacked a useless cunt.
"Steve, get your stuff and fuck off"

He cried

I felt great
(Cane: I love Sushi, Sobriety & Shotokan, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:41, Reply)

excellent timing
Ideas on how best to flounce out of my job are most welcome. I was thinking of a rifle in the belltower and blood on the quad.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:35, 12 replies)

For my sins....
...used to work at Carcraft. Shudder.

Anyway, one of the other delivery point staff fucked a car right up, roughly £500 worth of damage to a fairly new BMW 523i.

Anyway, through an unfortunate series of "wrong place at the wrong time" moves on my part, I got the blame. The little cunt who did it didn't stand up, like a real man and admit it. When i explained to my manager that it was he and not I, he proceeded to perfom an Oscar worthy verse about how it couldn;t possibly have been him.

I was not happy.

I was even less happy about the lack of help my 'co-workers' had displayed.

Anyway, they left for lunch and I stayed behind, furious about my written warning and being on my 'last strike'. It was at this point I thought 'fuck it, I don't need this crap job' So...

I removed all the tags from all the car keys in the cupboard, put them in my pocket and then left all the annonymous keys (roughly 300) on the desks in a heap. Then I left.

300 cars, 300keys, no tags, mostly Ford and Vauxhall so mostly looking the same.

Sort that lot out.....

God damn, i felt good after that!
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:32, 1 reply)

By an amazing coincidence
this is my last day at work before I start a new one on Tuesday. I am waiting to see whether I am given a card or present, without much hope of receiving either.

Why? Because for the last 16 months I have not contributed a penny to anyone else's birthday or leaving collections. I've always thought it was idiotic to give money to people I neither know nor like, even if this made me exceptionally unpopular.

At my last job, I got no card or present as a result of this policy. I just walked out as people gazed self-consciously at the floor. It's like school isn't it? "If you don't invite me to your party, you can't come to mine..." Well, it's not school. It's Big Boy World where people have a choice and individual personalities.

I can't lose. If they get me something they'll have buckled under the weight of their own guilt and been beaten by my refusal to donate in the past. And if they get me nothing, do you think I'll spend the evening crying? Or thanking the Lord Jesus that the next place is paying me 30% more to do an easier job.

EDIT: At home now [half-day holiday]. No card, no present. Even the "goodbyes" were begrudged.
(frankspencer, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:29, 8 replies)

Dammit!
I was reading KMWIP's killer entry and missed the change!
(happylittletulip helpless and delicious, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:25, 9 replies)

Not technically quit
I haven't technically quit my jobin a coffee shop, as I just went away to go to uni, and am going back again to work this summer.

But never the less, that didn't stop me messing about on my last day.

Y'see, we used to get as many free hot drinks as we wanted during the day while we were working. I think it was supposed to make us hate working there slightly less.

It didn't really.

Anyway, I don't really do the whole hot drink thing. I stuck to the Irn-Bru; it wasn't free, but boy was it good.

Mmmmm.

Anyway, on my last day, I decided that since I wasn't making use of the free hot drinks, and hadn't done for the past two years, someone ought to.

So someone did.

In fact, pretty much anyone I knew that came in that day did.

Serves them right for minimum wage and crap conditions, crap hours, a crap place, and so on.
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:23, 3 replies)

How to hand in your notice
by Ike Witt

/sorry
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:21, 2 replies)

Last week's QOTW
I tried being highbrow about the works of Clarke, Robbins and Milligan and got nowhere. So I posted a terrible pun and made the best of page.

There's a moral in that somewhere...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 22 May 2008, 12:20, Reply)

Bollocks
Just been on the phone to my boss, and the question changes.

I think I'll tell him...no better not.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:20, Reply)

doh!

(conanow, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:19, Reply)

I'll be back
after lunch
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:18, Reply)

Fourth
That's it. I quit.
( le brian, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:18, Reply)

No!
Dammit.
I quit.
I hereby quit ever trying for first again.
( Cawl, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:18, 2 replies)

oh yes
first

well the time stamp is the same

I got really excited then....
(conanow, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:18, Reply)

1st
First!

EDIT

I beat Kaol!!! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!
(PenguinOfDeath is Scottish, and most likely angry, Thu 22 May 2008, 12:18, 1 reply)