I have an abnormally robust digestive system
And in my formative years my party trick was to eat or drink anything, even things that could be dangerous to others. One day a chemist friend of mine dared me to drink some liquid nitrogen. Without a second thought I necked the whole canister. What I didn’t realise is that because nitrogen is an inert element it triggers a peristaltic spasm causing a massive purging effect, the diarrhoea was so violent that the nitrogen didn’t even have time to change from its liquid state. As I ran from the room desperately trying to get to the toilet my friend asked if I wanted to drink some more, all I could manage to shout was “No…ice squits!”
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 29 May 2008, 10:24, 5 replies)

I'm quitting being overweight, unhealthy, lazy...
...leaving all my work to the last minute, being untidy, not taking care of myself, ignoring my friends when I'm tired, because they only care about me, spending all my time on the internet, and eating terrible food.

Instead, I'll be taking up running, going to the gym, eating healthily, being more sociable, spending several hours a week improving on my guitar, and generally improving myself.
( Mr.Ons knows you can hear him, Earthmen., Thu 29 May 2008, 9:07, 3 replies)

Bindun?
.
Rehab is for quitters....
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 29 May 2008, 7:25, 2 replies)

not me but......
At one of the clubs I used to work in one of the mangers (a complete cnut) wanted to get fired so that he could get the dole and get his methadone for free (yes, he actually admitted to that).

He kept doing worse and worse things to try to get fired (no dole if you quit and all that).

He started by blatantly stealing staff tips and quickly moved to stealing money out of the tills.

He started coming to work REALLY off his chops and then progressed to shooting up in the toilets and being VERY obvious about it.

He started sexually harassing the female staff (nothing serious, but in no way acceptable either) and just plain harassing all the staff whenever he could.

To his continuing disappointment the rest of the club's management was too fucked up themselves to notice or really care.

So one Saturday night he got up on the bar, smoking a cigarette and began randomly throwing pool balls at people (staff and patrons) screaming at the top of his lungs

"What do you have to do to get fucking fired in this joint?"

Apparently that worked as we never saw him again.
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Thu 29 May 2008, 6:15, 2 replies)

well I would post about when I quit stripping
but it's boring.

I just called one day to cancel a shift and then stopped making appointments for new shifts.

I did go out with all the girls after my last shift(to another club)to watch other girls take their clothes off and jelly wrestle though. Not such an interesting story but a very fun night ;P
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Thu 29 May 2008, 5:48, 2 replies)

Shameless pearoast
If only because I have nothing else to say, and a post below has reminded me of this, which fits nicely. Not work related, but fuck it.


I remember it well – I was in my late teens, and the relationship started, as many do, when I was drunk. She looked so alluring – long, slender, and blonde. How could I resist? The truth was I couldn’t. I was recently out of a serious relationship, and was feeling a bit battered and bruised by the experience. When she pressed herself to my lips, the experience was dizzying, electrifying… it took my breath away.

This was a new experience, and one that I quite liked. It made me feel liberated, somehow; carefree. More importantly, it took my mind off things, and I was grateful to her for that.

It was not to last. Whether it was because my head was somewhere else, I don’t know, but I awoke one afternoon to find that I wasn’t thinking about her anymore, and took it to be a sign that it was time to move on. For the next 13 or so years, I forgot all about my short but tender experience. That is, until my marriage crumbled around me, and I became a pale, nervous shadow of my former self. For two months I could barely face anyone, until one day resolve took hold of me, gave me a much needed slap and forced me to have a good look at myself. I straightened myself out, and took a friend up on his offer of “anytime you fancy a pint, just ring”.

So at 5:30pm, on a Tuesday evening, I did just that. Conceding the point that 5:30 on a Tuesday was a bit early, we met some 3 hours later, and drank and talked and laughed. I felt relieved at facing the world again, and found myself enjoying the company, but the return to an empty house served only to plunge me back into a pit of misery. The next day she walked mysteriously back into my life. Only this time, she was no longer blonde, but a kind of light brown with highlights. It suited her.

We took up exactly where we left off – not a word was spoken between us. There didn’t have to be, and for a few months I took comfort in her. Then, as suddenly as before, she was gone, and I thought no more of it. But then, I did have other things to consider, such as setting up temporarily in a flat of my own, whilst also looking for somewhere to buy. And so another year or so passed without a thought of my slender companion, until one night she was thrust upon me once more. This time it was different though, as we only saw each other at weekends – I was going to savour her companionship, give myself something to look forward to. It was OK, for a while, but I found myself missing her, and would sneak her into my house midweek, then one more day, and another… My friends grew concerned. Soon, she was even following me to work, where we’d sneak off to a small room a couple of times a day (she had reverted to being blonde by this point). The small room was available to us for about a year, until we were forced out by some Health and Safety nonsense, and we found ourselves taking refuge outside, at the end of the building.

My friends continued to warn me about her, but I didn’t listen. You don’t in these circumstances, do you? I was blind to what was happening to me, often found myself scraping a fiver together so I could see her again. When I look back now, that was pretty desperate. However, only a few days ago, it hit me, out of the blue – she was fleecing me of about £120 a month. It would go missing from my bank account, just small amounts at a time, so I wouldn’t notice until suddenly I was into the overdraft. And I realised that she wasn’t good for me. The strain of her company was starting to get to me, and I was having difficulty in sleeping. My mouth became dry, and I couldn’t taste things in the same way. And I realised that she had become a habit, devoid of any enjoyment. The bitter taste I had felt after her last kiss told me that it was time to walk away.

So, on Monday night, I pressed her to my lips one last time. “This isn’t working”, I whispered to her, my breath catching on the cold night air as I did so. With that, the last dying flame of our passion went out, and as I turned on my heel and closed the door, we said goodbye forever…

I've since reverted to my previous ways, but not for long. Honest

( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 29 May 2008, 1:57, 3 replies)

Hey DG! Lookie what I found for ya!



So is that Tourette's?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 28 May 2008, 22:51, 10 replies)

I quit
posting to this QOTW, as I can think of nothing else to add to it.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 28 May 2008, 21:52, Reply)

German recipes
are full of descriptions of crushing eggs. This technique is known as "ei quetsch".
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Wed 28 May 2008, 21:24, Reply)

I worked as a painter in the Netherlands
Over there, they like a certain shade of white that reminds them of oak. I was instructed to paint the walls that shade of white, but I soon ran out of paint. My employers refused to give me anymore paint, so I left because I ran out of Eik Wit.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Wed 28 May 2008, 21:22, 1 reply)

Well I think we can all agree....
That this qotw has died a death.
( girlinthehole, Wed 28 May 2008, 21:15, Reply)

Every Ash Wednesday...

...I give up Lent for forty days.
(Ktulu O'Ryleh float like a turd, sting like chlamydia, Wed 28 May 2008, 18:43, 1 reply)

My brother
worked for a well known microwave manufacturer as a temp. His job was to open and close the door forty times to see if they stuck (seriously). It was a shite job, obviously, and they gave him and the five other temps notice. The microwave lines were powered for testing at each station, so for fun, they put various sweets inside and turned the power on for 30 minutes. Apparently the best are opal fruits (sorry starburst), they end up like a thin 12 wide omelette. They went straight in the boxes and got shipped.
( DumbMonkey The penis mightier than the sword, Wed 28 May 2008, 18:34, Reply)

Top tip: Avoid burnout and follow your dreams
"Now the Field of Battle is a land of standing corpses; Those determined to die will live; Those who hope to escape with their lives will die."
-- Wu Chi's commentary to Sun Tzu's art of war

Being the persistent little bugger that I am, I don't have much to contribute this week, but I've said this in a few replies so I'll make a post of it.

If you feel like you're getting no satisfaction from your job despite all the hard work you put into it, it's time to take a break. If you've got a great idea for a creative work, be it a novel, an open-source project or a business-idea, or you just want to go travelling, go for it!

Maybe your passion for your job is being over-exploited or taken advantage of by a complete cunt of a manager? Maybe you're disillusioned with marketing-driven philosophies watering down your creativity to the point of non-existence? Or perhaps you're just heavily pregnant with your idea for your magnum opus. Whatever you do, don't allow your soul to be eroded to the point where you let yourself be defined by your negativity. What you need is some "you time". This will be an opportunity to practice your art under your own terms. If it turns out successfully, you still get to make a useful contribution to society. Also, it will help you purge yourself of the built-up cynicism you've accumulated and you'll come out of it much more pleasant. You will at least fend off burnout this way.

If you're worried about ending up with a gap on your CV that's big enough to make even Mr. Goatse blush, try and find a job related to the project you were working on once it’s finished. You just need to explain what you did and how you enjoyed it and the interviewer will overlook the gap if the project is relevant to the job.

If necessary, save up some cash or take advantage of circumstance (e.g. if you're lucky enough to have relatives that will let you treat their house like a free hotel or your spouse will let you just be a house-husband or a house-wife, don’t be afraid to go for it) or if you're really lucky, you have a job where you hardly do any work and can spend the rest of the time doing whatever you want.

And one final thing, if you do quit because you hate your manager or the company-boss and are planning revenge, please spare a thought for how it will affect the others in the company. Not everyone has the luxury of just being able to walk out, and not everyone will deserve the consequences of an enraged boss or increased workload caused by you leaving.

Apologies for lack of schadenfreude-laden story but at my previous job, I just handed in my notice, worked the one-month notice period and left on good terms.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Wed 28 May 2008, 17:16, 1 reply)

:-(
I met the first girl I’ve actually liked in more than 2 years last weekend. She’s fit as fuck and proper cool. Spent Friday night together then went for breakfast and everything seemed absolutely brilliant.
We’ve been texting since then but I get the feeling that she’s not as keen as I am. Just asked her out for a drink about 10 minutes and there’s been no reply. I know its only 10 minutes and she’s at work and but Christ I feel sick and keep looking at my phone every 2 seconds.
I need to quit being a pathetic spa and pull myself together.
(BarryChuckle, Wed 28 May 2008, 16:34, 45 replies)

Quit twice in 20 years
When I was younger, I used to 'work' for this highly conservative semi-governmental semi-religious organisation which was basically a cross between a pressure group and thinktank. It had it's finger in loads of pies and loads of influence with the government, despite being totally un-elected. I say 'work' but really I was on their introductory training course which took flippin for ages. I never got paid either, although that did not matter cos we could just demand anything we wanted for free due to the influence of the organisation.
Anyway the boss was this little misshapen guy who could not properly talk and was always getting on my case for abusing my power which was totally unjustified as I was just trying to get proper care for Amy, my then girlfriend who was up the duff. It all came to a head one day when I had a huge bust up with Ben, my mentor. I'm not talking shouting either, blows were exchanged and we had one hell of a proper fight. Anyway, cut a long story short I ended up in hospital, while Ben stole my girlfriend and moved away without telling me where. As you can probably imagine, that was the last straw for me- "Screw you guys", I thought, so I quit.
So then I started working for the guy who paid to get me fixed up in hospital, basically as his PA. He was totally rich and powerful, so this was a great job - lots of exotic travel and bossing people about and stuff - till one day 20 years later or so, my son by this gf turns up at our new head office royally p*ssed off and accusing me of not being a proper dad and calling me an asshole and smashing the place up. I'm like chill son, I can get you a great job here but he says no way and accuses me of selling out to the corporate bigwigs which I guess is true. Then my boss goes a bit mental and starts slapping my boy about and I'm like wtf he may be a bit cocky but there's no need for that - family's family and all - so I throws the boss down a well, which I guess means I quit again.
So then I get my boy to start up the original organisation again as it head which I guess is a happy ending of sorts although a bit sh*t about me being too dead to enjoy it.
Darth.
(Mystery_Machine, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:45, 9 replies)

Bad Monkey.
An old girlfriend got fired from one of her first ever jobs for being late on an (admittedly) consistent basis. Of course being 18 at the time she swore at the manager, told him what she thought of him and stormed off only to realise she had left her gym kit and some stuff in her locker. That lunch time she returned to find the locker empty, asking around she discovered that the manager who had fired her had apparently cleared her locker and taken her belongings into his office.

Thinking he was out (and not caring if he was in) she burst into his office muttering 'where is my stuff' only to find him behind his desk with her shorts wrapped around his cock going at himself like a maniac. Hearing her screaming with laughter half the office ran in to find their manager standing up trying to stuff his boner back in his trousers whilst tangled in a pair of girls shorts.

A footnote - he was transferred to another location and she was offered her job back. She declined and took a pay off of a months salary and a new gym kit.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:36, 5 replies)

Make me redundant!!
A few years ago I was employed by a pharmaceutical company to do some research in a hospital. The hospital paid some of my wages and the pharmacomp paid the rest.

The boss in charge of my lab was employed by the hospital, and was not really in charge of me. However after he realise what a useful and naive labtechy type I was, he gradually assigned me more and more work not related to the research that company was paying me for. I ended up not doing any research at all.

Part of my new duties was to enter research data into the hospital database, and as I became more familiar with the data I was handling, it dawned on me that the lab boss was not only using me for free, but was also using the hospital resources, people, computers, lab equipment, reagents etc, for his own private consultancy work (the Hospital didn't know this angle).


I decided that I needed the job very much, so I kept quiet. Anyway, long story short, I found out on the pharmacomp grapevine that the pharmaceutical company paying me was about to go out of business and I'd be out of a job within 2 weeks.


I had a quiet word with my lab boss, pointing out my understanding of certain inconsistencies of his accounting. I also pointed out that there was a University post grad course I wanted to apply for and that an involuntary redundancy package of a few months would cover the costs. Also that studying a post grad course in another part of the country would keep me far too busy to worry about hospitals for at least 3 years. I left it at that and let him invent an or else bit himself (I wouldn't stoop to blackmail after all, cos that is jail time and immoral and stuff).

A week later I was made redundant, with a nice settlement.


The result is that I ended up with a PhD and a very nice research position thankee very much.


Result.
(DrTeeth, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:29, Reply)

The shittest job.
In my backwoods hometown, we had two small supermarkets. The first had all of the mod-cons like cleanliness and refrigerators, the second was frequented by mad old people who left shit trails (in case they got lost?) around the store. I got a job at the latter.

My job? Ice cream girl, going at $6.30 an hour. I turned up for my first day, ready to live the delicious frozen dairy dream, only to find out that the manager gave my job to his, shall we say, shit-stained and cranally vacant niece for $1 more per hour. My new job? Cleaning toilets and smashing recycled drinks cans at a rate of $3.75 an hour. I was told it was because I came from a good family and he wanted to humiliate me.

Nonetheless, a fake I.D. wasn’t going to pay for itself, so away I worked. If a mad lady emptied the contents of her bowels all over the loo? I was there. If we got a big delivery of urine-smelling soda cans in? I smashed them. I suited myself up in a poo-and-wee-resistant rubber suit (perhaps sexxxy now, but not when you’re a 16 year old who smells like crusted underpants) and set about my tasks. If one were to ever excel at and loathe the more disgusting end of the job market spectrum, it was me.

Then the manager turned on me. He of ‘I want to create a Baptist cult who worship me as the saviour’ fame found my atheist ways rather distasteful. My hours were cut back, I was never out allowed out onto the floor and had to put up with a barrage of abuse, nevermind the constant racist and homophobic words. Never a shift went by where by manager didn’t set out to make me cry, didn’t taunt me with words. My shifts caused me untold mental and germular harm. I had to leave.

The supermarket was in the process of being bought out by a much larger, national chain. I, on the other hand, was graduating valedictorian of my class. The bigwigs were in a meeting with my fat racist manager when they called me in, rubber faeces suit and all. “I hear you’re top of your class! Wowza, da valedictorian works right here, in er supermarket, fer us! We need ta put up er sign, tell ev’rybody we’re proud ta have ya!” The manager sat back smugly, arms crossed, content that he had hired me into this fold.

I decided right then to quit. I opened my mouth and told them about the racism and the homophobia. I told them about the bullying and the discrimination. I told them how I’d been demoted to a shit (literally) job in favour of his assbucket niece because he wanted to debase me. I told them about the disgusting things I was forced to do. I told them of the ritual humiliation. I peeled off the rubber shit suit, left it on a chair, turned to them and said, “I quit, and he’s to blame.”

The manager was fired less than a week later. They still put up a sign in my honour. I shopped at the other supermarket.

A week after that, I got another job: spraying out public toilets for the Department of Natural Resources.

My 'shit' jobs keep my rooted as I look our over my ivory towers, counting my money and attractive men who really want to do the dirty with me.
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:25, 1 reply)

Walking - or was it stumbling...
There have been two incidents in which I have quit - in quite a fun flouncing manner... One of which I have talked about before but I shal recap.

Whilst at uni to suplement my beer fund I worked at a large mainly older clientel city center bar - it was a nice place to work, but as per usual the landlady was a control freak and let you know so on a regular basis.

I'd been there a while and although my wage didnt go up I was given all sorts of responsibility, from training staff to sweeping to cellar work to carrying weekends takings across the city to be banked. (too many tos?)

Anyway, one monday morning 9am set up for 12 noon open... quite alot to be done, 2 of the others (both supervisors) called in sick... Arse but never mind I'm sure I can get the place looknig reasonable and I'm sure the boss will chip in - will she my hairy arse cheeks...

The final straw came when I was told my sweeping wasn't been done correctly, whislt she sat on her fat arse slurping coffe I had got her, doing the cross word... I walked out of her sight, contemplated for about 3 nano seconds what next to do... should I just wander off have a fag and get over it, or should I listen to my hungover head, and flounce... well... exactly.

I flounced like no one had flounced before, whilst crying hahaha!!! I would have gone and got trollied somewhere, but I was skint - bugger.

Right I am stretching this out somewhat, and I can't really go into too much detail with this one...

Working for an upmarket stationary* - type company... I landed the job straight from uni, my position was quite literally what my degree course was written for, and with in days I had slotted into the company and was feeling very at home. My job was dynamic, I was given responsibility and I introduced new working practices to make new money and also practices to save money...

I was literally and I'm not making this up, the companies little saviour. My knowledge of the industry grew, my roles expanded according to how I felt and I was having a whale (wale) of a time. 6 months in things started to change... the way our salary was paid was changed, leaving loads of us out of pocket - all with no notice...

Then we all became aware huge problems with money generally in the company, the two guys in my office we fretting.. but I could see that it was merely a cash flow blip, and that everything would settle down once some new structures were put into place.

Well... the blip affected us directly in a number of ways... I couldnt order from my suppliers, if they'd even speak to us... so I developed new suppliers of course all of whom wanted advanced payments... this is a tad difficult when accounts wouldnt give me cheques... then they started having problems actualyl paying us... 2 weeks wages would come, via cheque... then some more would arrive via bacs.. then another cheque all the time not knowing if it would bounce... we were told if it did the company would pay us any fines... oh joy.. fantastic.. brilliant position to be in!

This carried on getting worse and worse, with bailiffs arriving, certain utilities being cut off... it was all fun, really.. we sort of banded together like it was the blitz...

Part of my job was organise a variety of events, involving hiring temp staff - marquees.. the whole sheebang... everything it was down to me, so you can imagine my hours (remember salaried) were way way over what was expected... I can't count the number of times I was on site!! at 5am and not leaving site till gone 12... but I enjoyed it and it was valuable experience.

I never once put in a claim for extra hours; especially with the knowledge of how tight things were... some members of my family commended me on my work ethic realising this in the future would put me in good stead - other however were less positive - taking the union line (guess what they're public sector workers) that I stop and start to the clock...

anyway - I had a few days of sick for a recurring thing... just here and there, nothing bad or long term everyone knew and I told them at interview - I certainly never took the piss... So I was somewhat shocked when I was called into the owners office to be told that I would being docked xyz days of pay - I was silently fuming...

things roll on slowly like this boring rant - things get worse, way worse.. I find out the boss has upped and left to live in Ireland, the rent on the property hasnt been paid for months - and it was highly likely that we wouldnt be being paid at the end of the month... so rather than sit around and take this I sort out all my files and make copies of all my clients and suppliers... tidy away my desk biding my time...

I couldnt decide when to jump ship.. but I think the hangover on monday morning combined with me drinking a half bottle of vodka before getting a taxi there over 2 hours late might give rise to that I wasnt likely to go back...

I literally roll in through the door.. .stumble into the office... give the guys a big hug... in the middle of the corridoor, shout I QUIT!!! turned and walked out!!!

Two weeks later they go into administration and get bought out. They owe me but I never chassed any monies... I did enjoy myself though... I went and did what anyone else would have done... got thoroughly wankered!!!
(feedingtimeatthezoo day 1 of his bikini diet started, Wed 28 May 2008, 15:03, Reply)

Trombone
Sorry about the length…

When i was younger i had dreams of playing the coolest of instruments... the guitar (electric of course), Drums, Piano (keyboard with synth) and as I matured - the sax. I made these views perfectly clear to my mum, who from a young age noticed my musical talent.

So much so that she enrolled me in a music course at the age of 4. Playing the fekkin ORGAN! (She was/is quite the religious kind) But my story isn’t about the organ; a few years had to pass first.

I attended about 4 Organ classes, before my lack of enthusiasm finally showed. So we fast forward several years. I went school, where my mum was told i have an ear for music, and should be enrolled in learning a musical instrument. As my cousin had already learnt to play it and had a spare in her garage, to save money my mum thought it would be a good idea to play the TROMBONE. Which isn’t so bad, but when the case is old, the shape size and weight of a small coffin, and you are about 4ft tall, it becomes a problem. My mother never saw the problem.

So after passing through 3 music grades in a matter of months, my mum thought I was a musical genius, when in fact I was incredibly good at remembering a tune, rather than actually reading music. “Take him to the Saturday music school” one music teacher suggested. And so begun my musical downfall at the age of 9yrs old.

I remember the morning quite well; I had argument upon argument with my parents about going to the Saturday music school. I knew I was a fraud. I didn’t know a single note in the written form. Not just that but there were several positions of the trombone I was still unable to reach because my arms weren’t long enough.

We arrived at the school I was trying to hold the tears of embarrassment back… I walked the corridors with my mum almost dragging me with my trombone coffin hanging from lack luster arms. Everyone was older than me, everyone seemed familiar to one another, bar me, I felt them gaze through me – they knew I was a charlatan. We arrived outside the class, my mum threw open the door, pushed me in I could hear the room fall silent behind me. I turned to my mum just as she closed the door behind me, her final words were ‘ill be in the car’.

I turned to face the class, the door was at the front of the class, I was infront of everyone. I noticed the class was averaged at age of about 14-15, I was 9. I sat down on the only spare chair, the room was still silent. I was a stranger – and boy did they make me feel it…

The teacher allowed me a few minutes to setup my trombone and gave me a sheet of music. It was just as I dreaded, the sheet was full of notes and twirls, and characters I should have known, but I didn’t. The Teacher ushered every one to raise the instruments to start. With a nod of his head I pushed the mouthpiece to my mouth. But I couldn’t even muster a note.

I could feel the silence from my seat like I had dropped an SBD. The teacher walked over to check I had the right music. I did, but I just couldn’t play it. They played quickly, so quickly that one or two notes that I did understand simply passed before I had enough time to enhale.

Then I took evasive action. I prepared to run. But I couldn’t just run out… I had the trombone which needed to be packed away. I looked at my coffin, I could do it, its there, my escape… it’ll only take a few seconds to dismantle and run. And so I did mid song. The tune fell apart as I stepped off the chair. Distracting the band with every second. I was out the door in a flash, tears running down my cheeks, I was so scared, and humiliated.

I ran down the halls, people staring and laughing, I was a mess. But I had done it, my mum couldn’t make me go back.

I got to the car, my mum was sitting with the windows down reading the newspaper. She saw my face, helped me into the car. We had a Mcdonalds on the way home.

I didn’t play again.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 28 May 2008, 14:03, 18 replies)

Boy's Brigade
In the times when we lived on the festering wastes of a council estate of Sheffield, my mum and a group of my mate's parents had decided to push us all in the direction of the local Boy's Brigade based at the local church, this after a number of events resulting in us becoming what the community police officer could only describe as 'thieving little bastards'. Surely the BB could turn us into good Christian boys?

Now, for those of you who know the organisation, it's basically a blend of Scouts, Cadets and Sunday School - in other words, you make things, play football, march and read about the bible. With my mum's family being all god-fearing folk, me and our kid having cracking left foots and technical nous, well, we fitted in like hands into the proverbial glove.

Like all good stories, there's an antagonist, a fellow I can only name Steven (for that was his name). Now, whilst I was a geek but cool with it (yeah, right), Steven was a Grade 'A' Premium NERD. Nobody liked him, he hated football and his sister was a bit of a mong.

Anyway. After a couple of years I found myself in the Junior section, and I was doing really well. I could make a mean model of the crucifixion of Christ and to top it off in my world, scored one of the goals in the North Sheffield five-a-side competition final.

Despite all this, I was still not group leader. No, this was Steven. Why? Because mummy was verger (or something) at the church, and because my mum couldn't afford the proper uniform (or the barbers), I didn't look the part either, Steven with his clean pressed uniforms and 'smart' side-parting.

Still, I had all the badges Steven did, and was finally aiming for the Gold badge. I once again helped the football team to victory, got pretty damn good on a bugle and my model of the holy grail went down a storm at the Easter fair.

Surely leading the chosen team to glory in the Bible Studies Competition would seal my destiny???

My fate was to be sealed at a (frankly pompous and overblown) ceremony at the Sunday service at church the week after.

We were all lined up in front of the altar in our full uniform, shook hands with the local religious types and were given special certificates by the pastor in celebration of our efforts.

Now, the group commander took to the altar and I knew that this was the time I would finally take my spot as group leader by getting the gold badge the doddering feller had in his grasp, and had to hold myself back from jumping the gun and snatching the thing from him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would also like to take this time to reward a young man who's contributions to this company have been exemplary, in terms of his spritual, community and active attitude throughout his time with us. So it with great pleasure that I award Steven with the Gold badge..."

WHAT?

Where was the justice? I had blazed a trail through the brigade (so much so that I was getting overtures of joining rival companies) and this snivelling, useless shit had got what was destined to be mine? Where was the justice?

My response was one that I would re-live and re-enact for years to come.

In tears, and with the whole congregation (including my dear mother, my aunt and a barely-able-to-contain-himself little brother) watching, I bawled "FUCK THIS FOR A LIVING, YOU CAN SHOVE THAT BADGE UP YOUR ARSE", kicked over some of the ornaments on the altar, and stormed out of the church with family hurriedly and ashamedly in tow.

I never went back to the Brigade, and the day after in school, I sought my cold-served revenge by giving the smug bastard Steven a pasting in the school canteen after he failed to hold his tongue after the previous day's events.

So, I'd sworn in church, embarrassed my folks and beaten a god-botherer up.

I think I made my point, don't you?
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Wed 28 May 2008, 13:21, 12 replies)

ahhh the sweet revenge...forcibly "quit"
I worked my cunt out for this furniture removalist, and was really good at it,so much so that I would tire the huge, stupid senior blokes out in about 1/2 an hour, then merrily carry on tramping shit while they took "smoko". Well, it was a year or so before I was promoted to "driver" and started running the jobs and driving the Semi-trailers myself, although, as I learned, top "offsiders" like I used to be, were very hard to get.
Now, the huge, stupid oxen that were senior to me started to become very jealous...and one afternoon in the yard, as we finished up, cleaning the truck, changing a tyre or two, Brutus took the call from the boss about next day's work, and then informed me that I wasn't required, and being a "casual" employee, that was fine by me, all the more pints at the pub that night..
Well, me being in demand, next morning the phone rang, it was some other mob "can you do a couple of pianos for $200?"
"Shit yes!", I reply, and off I go in the opposition's truck.
Soon, the phone was ringing again..."Hello"..I answered.
"Where are ya mate, the boys are waiting for you at so-and-so".
"What? Brutus told me there was no work today, so I'm doing a couple of pianos with so-and-so".
"You WHAT!? I told Brutus that we needed you at so-and-so, don't give me that! Brutus wouldn't lie! Don't bother coming in again until you've decided that you work for ME, you ungrateful bastard!"
So I thought, shit, if that's what you believe, you arsehole, so be it.
I grovelled for work for a week, doing process work in some factory for shite money, and applied for a few Semi driving jobs. On the Friday after my "sacking", the phone rang, and I'd scored a job driving the best, newest, shiniest truck in town, with about a ten-grand payrise to boot..
My delight at driving past the arsehole's depot, sounding my several-note air horns, cackling over the CB radio while the cretins slaved away getting fluff up their noses sweeping up shit while I swanned off in my lazy-assed tipper was fantastic.
(mr locomotivator, Wed 28 May 2008, 12:59, 2 replies)

Dwight Eisenhower once said
"Any man who wants to be president is either an egomaniac or crazy. "

I suppose that's an example of Ike wit.




Please don't shoot me!
( Schweaty Minge I spunked in your tea! Taste it and see! D:, Wed 28 May 2008, 12:17, 4 replies)

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bong
I first met Weed one sunny afternoon when, as a naive 14 year old, I discovered that the cloud of smoke being expelled from my lungs was in fact more than just the tobacco I had assumed it to be. There was no moral outrage, no upset at being 'duped' into inadvertently smoking Weed, indeed, I refused to pass it on and filled my lungs once more, but with a greater determination to maximise the impact.

At first we would meet only occasionally. I was young, constantly making new mind-altering acquaintances, and only able to dedicate a limited amount of time to any one of them. Drink quickly became a fairly regular companion, but his more narcotic cousins would flitter in and out of my life as my mood dictated. However, as time passed I found myself favouring Weed above the others and throughout the end of my teenage years and into my early 20's I developed quite the affinity for it.

Our relationship soon developed into a very one sided love affair, with me devoting more and more time and money while Weed gave nothing back beyond an overwhelming lethargy and a persistent paranoia. I puffed my way through university, blundered through an inglorious beginning to my working life and, other than writing a not insignificant amount of music, achieved remarkably little.

My parents have always bemoaned my desire to smoke my life away; not only because I'm sure it's the last thing you want to see your offspring do (and both my brothers were as bad until they produced offspring of their own), but because it made their already stupidly lazy son into a completely useless twat. And so it was warmly welcomed when, around Christmas last year, I declared the affair was to end. And I haven't regretted it for a second.
( Moey, Wed 28 May 2008, 11:56, 3 replies)

I Quit...
I've just had my biological age done in work which has come back as 50...

I'm twenty fucking eight

I'm quitting this sedentary lifestyle and starting some proper fucking exercise...

FUCK
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 28 May 2008, 11:25, 3 replies)

Selling Credit cards and Pet insurance
I was a numpty of a naive teenager and took a job in Manchester as a 'sales person'. I was naive because me being me never asked about wages.

This turned out to be pay as you sell basis.

I lasted 3 days made 4 sales and got paid £32 ex tax.

I did however sell a credit card to Mark Radcliff's (off mark n Lard) Wife. Which as it turned out was incorrect and got rejected.

I quit whilst standing at a booth in the Trafford centre, I literally got my stuff and walked. Its quite a strange feeling going from super depressed, and tied down, to being so free.

I went back a day after to collect some stuff, and was greeted by a young lad whom id been working with the day before. Apparently he had been working 'the charity run' which is where you go door to door and get people signed up to giving £5 a month to charity.

Apparently he said he was making a fortune and tried to persuade me to come back as it was 'piss easy'

"All you say is 'are you happy here sir?, in your nice house, with your nice car, healthy children, central heating'? It works every time - especially the old women..." he said “I made nearly £150 yesterday"

I couldn’t believe what i was hearing - and there the penny dropped. I realised the game the company played. I never did go back.
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 28 May 2008, 9:54, 1 reply)