i was sacked for being a shit, but a proud one
I used to work for a chain of pubs, Yates, and basically was a pump jockey for a couple of weeks until my duty manager realised that I could add up and I was a University student (it was a summer job) therefore, I could train to be a bar manager (meant I did the tills at the end of the night and worked a rota). The pay would go up, so I said what the heck.

Fast forward a couple of weeks, Blackpool's season is in full-swing. I loved working nights as I tended to get lots of tips from the ladies and I was good at making the cocktails (I always say that cocktail manufacture is like chemistry with sex-appeal). At the end of one such night we were told that since it had been so busy, we'd all have to muck in on the cleaning and the place needed to spotless at 2am.

Needless to say, due to the complete laziness of most employees and the lack of energy after a 10hour shift, 2am came round and the place still looked like a student bedroom.

We all beavered away and I noted on my timesheet that we finished at 2.45am. The timesheet was handed in and my wage packet the next thursday came and showed me working until 2am. Sure enough, the manager of the place informed me there had been ample time and tough, we were only paid until 2am.

I then waited until the Saturday, when I worked nights. Another busy night and come 2am, the place was a shambles. I asked the manager, loud and proud "Are we still being paid now?", the answer as expected was "No". I shouted a riot act at him and downed tools. I marched to the door and was told "don't come back".

I went in the next shift and the manager had a quiet word with me, regarding the fact that I will get paid for all hours I work, as long as I don't tell the rest of the staff. I kept my end of the bargain up, and so did he.

It was when I was shunted onto day-only shifts that I got a grievance. I then noticed that a blonde bimbo had been promoted to Night shift manager and I thought what the hell, so just got on with it, as the new Uni term was only a couple of weeks away.

One night, I was asked to work for someone who'd called in sick. I turned up for the shift and noticed that the blonde thing hadn't been seen for a while, so assumed the management role for a bit.

After a few hours, I needed change, so, stressed miffed off and completely irate I marched to the office and unlocked the door, completely oblivious at this point to the blonde being boned by two doormen and the manager (who were all naked).

I, still irate, oblivious, opened the safe and got my change. I then left, slammed the door to the office and then on my way back to the bar realised what had been going on in the office.

It was only then I had the genius idea to turn on the office security camera on the large screen projector that was showing the rugby. (I'd found out previously that the cctv screen behind the bar could be used to watch sky, so I knew that they were on the same circuit..)

Some families demanded to see the manager and licensee, to which I said certainly, madams/sirs. I telephoned the office and said that customers were complaining and needed to speak with him. Minutes later he appeared.

You may now imagine a load of irate parents, randy rugger buggers and crying children recognising the stars of the broadcast. The manager took one look at me as I walked out smiling with my coat on already.

Funny, I never did get paid for that last week of work there.

/apologies for the length, but I enjoyed every minute of it.
(lunus loves tizer, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 21:52, Reply)

Lloyds TSB
A few years back, I worked in the Eastcheap banch of Lloyds TSB, as an web admin monkey, updating their graduate recruitment site.

This was around the time of the foot & mouth crisis, and, whilst bored, i changed the Horse logo to a cow, and the name to Lloyds BSE, on the screensaver graphic file i had access to - just a bit of dumb photoshopping.

I didnt realise that, since I was updating the site, I had full access to the London network, and the core directories for all the city branches. The next morning, everyones machines, including front line branch machines, was displaying my 'edited' version.

I was given an *instant* dismissal. My bank account was cancelled and refunded to me, I was walked out of the building by security at 11am. Although it's not enforced - I signed a form stating that I was legally not to enter a branch of Lloyds TSB again.

As I left the building, not a single person smiled, they all looked at me like I'd just killed a puppy. Fucking humourless cunts.
(Mildred is a slimy, double-crossing, no-good swindler, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 10:46, Reply)

I should have been fired (or at least disciplined)
5 years ago I had a boring admin job whose only redeeming feature was that I worked on a team with 3 lovely young ladies. Abbie sat to my left; she was 21, slim, blond, attractive but a total space cadet and jittery with it. Very jittery, if somebody dropped a file loudly she would flinch noticeably.

Whenever I made the coffee she would always remind me that she only took half a teaspoonful of coffee, what she called “granny coffee” as it was so weak. This one time I accidentally used a whole spoonful so I put more milk in to hide the stronger colour and taste. Abbie didn’t notice.

Now I’m not a bad person, and I liked Abbie, but the mischief switch in my head went and the challenge was on to see how strong I could make her coffee before she noticed. Obviously I had to start low and increase the dosage each time.

A few days later a manager named John caught me in the kitchen counting out 4 spoonfuls of coffee into Abbie’s cup. “What are you doing?” he asked. I didn’t know he was stood behind me so I was a bit flustered and just fessed up, “I’m seeing how much I can drug Abbie with coffee, you see…if you use more milk it masks the colour and taste…” I trailed off nervously.

The manager took a step closer, looked at the cup, looked at me again and said without changing facial expression, “Well put some more in then”. Well thank fuck for the Y Chromosome! If it had been a female manager I would have been toast.

It had to stop a few days later, I was up to 5 spoonfuls which to put in context is a 1000% increase in dosage. Abbie was noticeably twitchier. I got a phone call that was for her, I turned to my left and said that I was putting a call through which she duly acknowledged, when she picked up I said in the killer from ‘Scream’ voice “HELLO ABBIE, DO YOU LIKE SCARY MOVIES!?”….

She screamed. Loudly. Then cried. A lot.

The female power-dressing megalomaniac office manger fixed me with a cold stare. Nothing was said but the experiment was over. I was super nice to Abbie after that and reduced her coffee intake back to normal “Granny” strength. I’m sure drugging colleagues with coffee is a sackable offence, it should be.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 11:42, Reply)

Mr Catalogue Model
During the late 90's I dossed around doing temp work as it fitted in with the band I was in and my stoner lifestyle.

I landed a gig doing spare part ordering for a large truck manufactuer in their main warehouse in Cheshire and turned up in my best suit (A mandarin collared - Jet Li style black suit) and matching shirt.

The job was dull - sat infront of a dumb terminal checking availability of parts for grease-monkeys and ordering or reserving them for delivery. My immediate boss Cheryl, was lovely and on the first day found that she was a rock chick who had seen my band several times and who thought we were great. Life was good.

That was until the end of the second day, when the door to the office was thrown open by a blond haired catalogue model with lantern jaw and an equally artifical personality - he strode in, looked me up and down and then breezed into Cheryl's office and shut the door.

You know when someone is talking about you and I kept turning around to see him talking at Cheryl and pointing at me. I was later called in to see my boss after he had gone and was told "That was my boss and he has asked me to tell you that there is a dress code in the office of shirt and tie, could you adhere to this please from tomorrow"

My hackles went up and I asked if there was dress code for women in the company - she said that there wasn't. So I started mentioning sexism and equality in the workplace, to which she became very amused and agreed with me that it definitely was sexism.

The days following saw a daily visit from Mr catalogue model and even company ties turn up on my desk. Every day had me in Cheryl's office after his visits with stronger warnings of having to adhere to the company dress code and for me please wear a shirt and tie.

I wasn't fucking going to - he had pissed me off at first sight with his "you're shit on my shoe" look and arrogance - and I was sticking to my guns about the sexism and equality issue.

Friday came, my boss pulled me into her office again and said that she was off on Monday and just to keep things smooth and me there in the contract, would I please wear a collared shirt and tie.

I turned up on Monday in my collarless suit and shirt to be immediately pulled into the office by Mr catalogue and given a royal petty dressing down; "I believe that Cheryl has repeatedly relayed my requests that you dress to the company dress code - how DARE you defy my authority" - blah! blah! blah!
I looked him square in the face and started quoting employment, equality and sex discrimination acts - to which he went fucking purple and started shouting at me to do what I was told - and I had "better come in in a shirt and tie tomorrow or else!".

I knew that my contract was going to be terminated there and then, so I went straight to the shops after work and bought myself a very nice shirt and silk tie.

I turned up the following morning, threw the office door open and strode in like he did and then struck the best catalogue pose I could...

There was a very loud series of gasps and then I got a standing ovation from my colleagues.

I had on the most gorgeous blue cotton shirt and silk tie, tucked into the most gaudy multi-coloured bemuda shorts showing off my knees and half of my pasty white shins before the battered paratrooper boots started.

He was sat in the back office and no word of a lie, I am sure that the glass condensated when I walked in. He said nothing - absolutely nothing and I worked away, coiled, waiting for him to have a go. Nothing.

Until 4.30 - when I got back from a fag break to be ushered into his office by a boilersuit wearing warehouse manager who closed the door behind me. Mr Catalogue was sat in the chair, 6'7" warehouse guy by the door, and another huge shop floor worker next to the desk.

Mr Catalogue tried to go into an authorititive speech about how I was no longer needed and how my behaviour was unacceptable, my work shoddy and how I would never get a decent job. But he stammered through all of it and kept breaking his gaze on me because I was unblinkingly staring at him. I kept grinning at him trying to keep my cool and not just roll about on the floor laughing at the pathetic fuckwit's posturing.

"Do you have anything to say before you leave?"

"Yes! You're just jealous because in these shorts you can see I clearly have a bigger dick than you and also unlike you I can pull this particular look off!"

He went purple - the two shop-floor grunts stifled belly laughs, before the one behind me opened the door and said that I had better leave - which I did. With my head held very fucking high!

Spring never employed me again though.
(Catchag "You know!....For Kids!", Thu 2 Mar 2006, 14:24, Reply)

Damn you, Truancy Officers!!!
I once had a job driving a big, yellow JCB...

...but I got fired for letting my 5 year old son Luke bunk off school to drive round with me all day. Apparently this contravened a number of Health and Safety regulations...

Mr B Lee.
( RR I love you ... in a way, Tue 28 Feb 2006, 14:00, Reply)

Tin-Tin Finally Gets The Sack
My favourite sacking story comes courtesy of my Great Uncle. After he left the navy, post-war, he became a fireman until his retirement. Whilst there, his service was rewarded one year during the fifties by being given the job of organising the local bonfire night fireworks display. Whereas now this is still run by the fire service but paid for by the council, back then the fire service paid for it themselves, with the help of the odd public donation. So it was a much more modest display, but still a couple of hundred quids worth and still attracting a few thousand locals to the site to watch the proceedngs.

So my Great Uncle was filled with pride as he strutted out in front of the cheering crowd. The bonfire was already lit and burning nicely, he'd already lit his taper and opened the metal box to get out the first firework (yes, get out, this was the fifties, no fancy pyrotechnics, intricate patterns and big electric buttons that made them go bang). Being a firemen he knew not to take risks and held the taper above his head, well away from the fireworks as he reached into the box. He would later say that he didn't feel anything and the first sign of trouble was as he saw the taper fall past his nose in slow motion. He looked at the box crammed with fireworks, saw the smouldering taper land in the middle, reached in to retrieve it, realised what he was doing and stopped briefly before sensibly screaming like a maniac and running like fuck.

What was going to be a jolly fifties hour long firework display was instantly turned into a violent two minutes of explosions, terror, ducking, swearing and general pant soiling. The result was pretty good considering, no one was hurt, except the Great Uncle's pride, and the crowd generally thought it was pretty funny rather than hugely disappointing, once the panic had subsided that is. My Uncle was immediately re-christened Tin-Tin because of the metal box the fireworks were in and, god knows why, wasn't sacked from his job as fireworks organiser.

So why was he sacked? I hear you ask. Well, that occured precisely a year later when, absolutely no word of a lie, he did exactly the same thing again. According to his wife it was like watching a replay on the football. He opened the box, he dropped the taper, he detonated everyone's hard work in mere minutes amidst the panic and screaming. I can still never understand how he kept his job as a fireman, never mind just sacking him from the fireworks part. Still, my favourite bit is whenever we go round his house he still manages to gamely laugh when he pulls out a match to light his pipe and everyone throws themselves to the floor or hides under tables with cries of 'Incoming!'.
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Mon 27 Feb 2006, 21:52, Reply)

Another innocent terminated
There was this bloke where I once worked who opened my eyes to the depths of madness to which people can descend. I never knew how truly paranoid a person could be until encountering the wild fantasies of this individual. Everyone was plotting behind his back. He used to complain about music or even voices being too loud, about people joking and laughing (clearly at his expense) and demand meetings with co-workers and management to deal with his latest wild accusations. Oh, and people on other shifts were using his mug, plate and cutlery.

The feud over the plates was what did him in in the end. He targeted those he believed were the culprits, leaving them notes and sending emails (they worked opposite shifts and rarely met). At the Christmas party, he carried a plate over to their table and smashed it over his head, grinning maniacally at them, while in full view of the CEO et al.

Then one day he went to make a coffee in his mug, only to find it firmly glued to the cupboard. I guess it dawned on him as he stood trying in vain to lift his mug that everyone really was out to get him, really were laughing at him.

That day the workplace was in stitches. Everyone knew who the culprit was, but God love plausible deniability. So the culprit stayed, while the emails that the madman sent to the entire company accusing and threatening people who touched his property were used as a welcome excuse to solve that psychotic problem permanently.

To this day the mug remains as a silent tribute to him and crazy co-workers everywhere. Many have tried their hand at removing the cup, but all have failed. Legend has it that one day, some crazy King Arthur will walk in, casually reach for the mug and pull it free, thus crowning themself the new workplace psycho.


Apologies for length but not duration
(filthytruck, Sun 26 Feb 2006, 4:51, Reply)

Accidental libel of one of the world's largest football clubs
For legal reasons I can't actually name any of the company names involved and also because I'm still a bit scared of them.

I used to work for a company which made (and still make) one of the most popular cheat code devices for consoles. I worked as a cheat code developer there and one of my duties was to make stand alone cheat/update discs. It was my responsibilty to make the update disc for a new football game which was coming out. This involved correcting all the team names, player names, badges, etc. However, when I was making the badge for one of the teams, instead of their name on the badge (and just as a joke to share with my mate), I put 'Dirty Fucking Scum Cunts'. This imaged was then flattened to a low res bitmap and made unreadable. We had a good laugh about this.

The disc was finished and mastered in very large quantities and shipped across Europe and sold very well. Approximately 2 weeks later the Producer of the product asked me to come and look at something with him. Now apparently an 8 year old boy had got the disc and (being impressed with the job I had done) wanted to see how I had made the badges. So he went into the editor and looked at the badge and zoomed in on it. It soon became apparent that the writing was not quite as illegible as first thought. The boy wasn't sure what it said, but he knew it didn't say his team's name. His Dad had a better idea of what it said.

Angry Dad then took it back to the major High Street retailer where he bought it from. They took all of our products off the shelves (not just the one in question) and soon several others did the same. The press were informed and started phoning us asking for questions. The football club in question were informed and started phoning up threatening legal action. The product had to be recalled, re-mastered and re-issued at an initial estimated cost of a quarter of a million pounds. Later, FIFA got onto them and were rather upset, as were a large video games company, who make another popular football game and who happened to pay a lot of money for exclusive name rights.

They asked me to leave (insisted really).

Fascists...
(The Louce, Wed 1 Mar 2006, 12:50, Reply)

Special delivery
I once worked in a silkscreen printers. Jack, the owner, came to the factory every day and sat in an office high above the factory floor at the top of a long flight of metal stairs. His beach-ball shaped body was framed by his stumpy little arms and legs and sweaty, round head. He was one of those permanently agitated people with a bright red face who look like they're about to explode. He was incredibly rude and arrogant, and clearly considered himself to be some kind of high-powered industrialist, rather than the owner of a grotty little printers in Walthamstow. He had a way of talking down to people that grated on me from the very first time I met him, and his low opinion of me was obvious from every comment he directed at me.

I'd only been there a week or so when I was called up to his office. I hated going up those stairs - those kinds of elevated factory offices are specifically designed to communicate the message, "I'm so much higher than you that you have to climb 200 stairs just to talk to me". I should really have been grateful though. It turned out that Jack had a Special Job for me to do. He needed a package dropped off at the Post Office. He held up the package, to help me understand. "Do ... you ... know ... where ... the ... Post ... Office ... is?" he asked, slowing down his speech and carefully pronouncing every word. Yes, I knew where the Post Office was. He told me anyway, in the same careful manner. He told me how to go to the window, how to weight the package, how to buy stamps. Between every instruction, he stressed again and again just how important this package was, how urgent its delivery was. "THIS ... MUST ... BE ... DELIVERED ... TODAY".

Jack saved the most important instruction for last. "You ... MUST ... give ... the ... package ... to ... the ... cashier". And don't try to put the package in the post box. And don't leave the package by the cashier's window. And DON'T PUT THE PACKAGE OUTSIDE. He repeated these very difficult instructions. He made me repeat them after him.

The factory foreman was up there the whole time and saw all of this. He was actually a nice guy, but not the most cheerful person in the world. He seldom smiled and he looked permanently worn out. He had a resigned look about him - I suppose he'd been listening to this kind of shit for years. Part of my difficult task was to report back to Jack when I'd returned from the Post Office, and the foreman was still up there in Jack's office at the top of those fucking stairs when I got back.

"Did ... you ... do ... as .... I ... told ... you?", Jack wanted to know. Yes, don't worry, I did it all exactly as told. I took the package to the cashier, I weighed it, I bought the stamps, I remembered to get a receipt, and then I put the package outside the Post Office, on top of the post box, just like I'd been told.

Jack turned crimson and literally began to shake. "YOU DID WHAT??!!". Don't worry, I said, I left it outside, on top of the post box, like you said. Jack had this white foam at the corners of his mouth at this stage. His beach-ball body was bobbing up and down and he was waving his stumpy arms, opening and closing his mouth. He was actually speechless with rage. "Naaah, s'all right," I said, "I'm only joking. I mean, I know how to send a package. I'm not a fucking idiot."

The most gratifying part of this was that the foreman, who had been standing next to me, emitted this little choking sound, and was then very obviously clenching his jaw, desperate not to laugh. He excused himself while Jack tore into me ("I DO THE FUCKING JOKES AROUND HERE!!") and when I returned downstairs there he was, and he gave me this beautiful smile, and he'd clearly spread the word, because so did everyone else in that miserable dump.

I lasted until the end of the day. It was so worth it.
( mofaha ┐( ˘_˘)┌ ʅ(́◡◝)ʃ, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 15:05, Reply)

Jebus
I've seen a number of spectacular sackings in my time, but Jesus Paul's was rather special.

Jesus Paul was taken on by the Dole Office as a temp, and he had to send out letters to people who hadn't turned up to sign on, to warn them they wouldn't get any money unless they showed their face pretty sharpish.

It was only after three weeks that we found out he was including a religious leaflet in each missive, and rounding off his letters with an invitation to accept The Lord Jesus into their lives or face the Wrath of God come the End Time. Several replies were received on the subject, saying that the Dole Office might consider "Getting to Fuck".

It was when he started a brawl with a group of claimants ("Do you believe in Jesus?" "No" *THUMP!*) that he was shown the door.

Poor, poor Jesus Paul.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Mon 27 Feb 2006, 13:19, Reply)

I have a conscience, honestly.
My story. Worth reading I think, due to the spectacular shit.

I used to work at a small car accessory shop, and I got put in charge (due to manager having nervous breakdown), with one day a week off.

It was the custom for me to leave a practical joke, upon leaving for the evening, for the person who replaced me for the day after (a mate) and vice versa.

So, that Monday evening, I stuck the phone handset to the receiver with superglue, rigged the door 'che-ching' bell to sound constantly upon opening the front door, placed various obstacles in the way of the counter, and rigged the lightswitch so it didn't work. GENIUS!

Only problem was, I sort-of-forgot to shut the upstairs door. The alarm went off at 3am. Nervous-Breakdown man was the one on the list for the security company to ring.

So he flew down on his bike at 3am, already in a cold sweat, the thought of masked intruders already sending his brain into overdrive.

Piled through the front door, sprained his ankle on the stuff in the middle of the floor, bell going off, phone was ringing due to alarm company calling, crawled to the desk and promptly smashed himself in the face with an entire phone, all the time with the terrible ringing in his ears.

He was found some 7 hours later sobbing in a corner of the shop. he never returned to work. Ever. For anyone.

It was a shit job anyway, but I still (ticket to Hull please) laugh at the mental picture of the guy crying and clouting himself in the head with the phone in blind panic.

Absolutely sod all apologies for length. (This is the same man who left a perfectly-formed turd around the rim of the down-toilet seat) So I don't feel that bad anyway.
(ArfurDaley Must try harder., Sat 25 Feb 2006, 2:56, Reply)

Looking back they may have had a point
About 19 years old, I blagged a job with an engineering company where (i.e. purely because) a friend's fiancée was the supervisor. Utterly unqualified for the job, no idea what I was supposed to be doing until the first day I got there. However I did know that I got a company car - great!

A few weeks later I still wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to do, other than drive to various building sites across the South and hope somebody else from the company was there so that I could stand there and pretend to watch and learn.

I soon found out that overtime was available at the weekend so happily started driving to these building sites on saturdays and sundays, to still stand around doing nothing, but with a hangover. Unfortunately one sunday morning I was a bit too hung over and ploughed the company car into the back of a parked car somewhere near Bracknell and smashed it up somewhat.

I was given a replacement car, an Escort not a Metro - oooooh! - this time with a DialCard (company credit card supposed to be used for fuel & oil only). Took me about a day to realise most staff at independent petrol stations would happily let me buy whatever the fuck I wanted with the card and give me a receipt for petrol.

The next friday I phoned in sick, took three mates in the company car and took them on a long weekend to Blackpool, all expenses paid courtesy of DialCard. Three days of utter booze-fuelled debauchery with nights spent sleeping in the car because no hotels would accept DialCard for payment - it was not for want of trying, mind.

I had no idea what site I was meant to be at on the monday morning so I turned up at the office. The manager confronted me in the car park and pointed out that I was stinking of booze, the car full of torn up porn mags, one headlight was smashed and it had vomit streaked all down one side.

He went bezerk at me, asking what the hell I'd been playing at - I explained that there was no problem, I hadn't even been driving when I'd been sick on the car, my mate had taken over the driving halfway back from Blackpool because I was too pissed. I didn't know about the headlight, but it probably happened when we had a fight in the motorway services.

I reflected on the wisdom of my words all the way to the job centre.
.
(Ali Bongo 9000 Ali Bongo 9000, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 15:20, Reply)

Sacked for being too productive...
I once worked for Argos as a temp, my job was to key in data from e-mails into spreadsheets, I was fairly computer literate at the time so on my first day I wrote a script to automate the whole process.

I was pretty proud of my one click system so after a week or two I showed my boss why my productivity was so good, 2 days later I was told I was not to come in anymore.

Shit
(Minty Hit, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 14:17, Reply)

Many moons ago...
I used to work at at a place that made liquid density & level sensors. The fateful project was for the fuel probes on an Arianne rocket. The cables on this thing were bloody long, so had to be ran down the warehouse, around the corner and into the metalwork shop.

Little did i know as i rolled out the cable, the sensor was following me - cut the cables 8 metres too short. Now this was all epoxy'd and cooked, so the cable could not be replaced...delayed the launch for 6 weeks whilst a new one was made.

Sacked for stopping a space rocket take off. Cool.
(phazey, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 7:30, Reply)

Revenge, sweet but not at all fattening
Before I emigrated to Sunny Sydney i used to run pubs in Dull Hull. One of which was right near the marina. A really quiet little boozer opposite the fruit market that was earmarked for knocking down when the area was to be renovated. (Its still there, Hull council are soooo very efficient).
Anyhoo, I had dramas there. the place had had 4 landlords a year for the past 3 yrs and I went in with the attitude that I could do so much better as the other guys had all been young idiots that had treated the place as a free booze shop for them and their drug taking hullscum mates.
The company that owned the pub were quite small and only owned 5 pubs, and as I had just left a large national comapny I thought it would be nice to be a big fish in a small pond for once. WRONG!
So to the pub. Gotta love the patrons. S-C-U-M. think of the worst type of chavster dickhead and treble it, then add Wayne Rooney. Awful terrible burberry clad idiots. Except on Band nights where the local bikers came down and the burberrys all disappeared. That is except one memorable night when the chavs stayed in "cos its our boozer innit?" and i professionally presided over what the Hull Daily Mail cheerfully described as a "wild west style bar room brawl" before the rozzers came round and arrested 30 blokes and 5 women.
So I got rid of the dickheads, the bikers, the band nights, and started quiz nights, comedy nights and singles nights. The takings remained constant and repair bills, police calls and the smell of despair around the place all decreased markedly.
3 months after i took over I am summoned to the office, the managing director says he has had a complaint about me. He tells me that a guy has written to the office and said I called him a fuckwit and had physically assaulted him and then thrown him onto the street. I laughed and told him i had, but was comfortable as this guy had tried dealing E's in the toilets. I had punched him and flushed his stash, then kicked him out. I settled back waiting for the pat on the back, when my managing director told me he was sacking me, as I hadn't passed my 3 month probation due to this incident. I ahd an hour to clear my stuff out of the pub and unscrew my name plate from above the door.
Nice
In the next few days, I asked around and it turns out the filthy chav is rooting the financial directors daughter, so I embarked on the best revenge mission of my life. Firstly, I rang the tax office and told them that both directors went around the 5 pubs on a Sunday lunchtime and creamed an average of 200quid from each till. (this was true) and that I had been actively encouraged to water down spirits and beer by them as it was "company practice".
They were investigated by HM customs and excise and both fined 10k each and deemed unfit to be directors of any business for 2 years apiece.
Then, and this is the best... I sneaked around to both of their Fisher Price Mansions, and superglued Cornflake boxes to the outside of them ("baffling vandalism on Village estate" - Hull Daily Mail). Then I emigrated, and am now earning fortune and have a lovely tan. Fuck em
(airliebird Has now found Twiglets in Sydney!!!!!!! yay!, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 0:56, Reply)

#1
at the tender age of 14, i was fired for not turning up to my saturday job at the greengrocers. my reason? i was in hospital with a broken arm.

'no worries' thought i, all i did was wash the display trays, and i'd done them all the previous week, which meant there was enough clean to last a fortnight.

a few days later, when i turned up to explain my absence, i was told that it didnt matter, as he'd given someone else my job on the wednesday before, and was going to tell me when i turned up.

my biggest mistake was probably asking him why he did. i asked him as politely as possible (seeing how i wasnt that bothered, it was a dull job anyway, and only paid a tenner for a days work), at which the cunt GRABBED ME BY THE FUCKING THROAT! (hard) and started calling me a "nosy little cunt"

in shock, i wandered home, and my cousin noticed i had marks on my neck, and asked what had happened. i explained as best i could, considering the shaking and stuttering.

at that, my cousin (9 years older than me, muscular, skinhead, but only 5'5") takes a wander up to the shop, and quietly mentions to my (ex) boss that by attacking me, he would retaliate, and strike him back in the hardest way he knew. boss (6'2", ginger) laughed at him, and replied "ha, that i'd like to see, little man! come on then, do your worst!".

my cousin's response? he walked out of the shop, turned left in to the police station, then told the story of events to everyone he knew. we live in a fairly small town, so word travels fast, and before long, most people knew about it. A majority of these people decided not to take their custom to a 'child-beating psychopath', instead opting for the less-convenient, but better priced, supermarket down the road.

6 months later, and the boss sells the business, due to a 'downturn in trade'. i hear the new management are a lovely couple, and their shop is doing very well.
( lo, the Greebo Warrior - Est. 2002, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 21:09, Reply)

Ah, Zebidee...
Zebidee probably wasn't his real name, but there was this old Jamaican chap at the cold-calling double glazing call centre I worked at for two weeks who got fired for paying tribute to the humour of Sid James.

Specifically, Zebidee was sacked for his regular response to female potential customers who attempted to rebuff his sales pitch by informing him they'd already had their double glazing done: "I'm very glad to hear that madam, but can I confirm that you've been done in the front and the rear?"
(oranguturn, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 17:42, Reply)

revenge is petty !!
bunch of cunts i used to work for "made me redundant" after I complained that the HR Director had clamped my car in the company car park for "parking in a half space". Was I bitter - too right!! Revenge was very petty, but very satisfying !
(1)They had to let me keep my company car for the length of notice (6 weeks) - it went back to them stinking of fish, thanks to the numerous bits of cod and prawns I hid in the heater vents, under the carpet in the seats etc.
(2) I originally set up all their spreadsheet templates, in my period of "consultation" I put in a macro to change various values after a certain date in random cells
(3) The dozy bastards didn't realise their dotcom domain name expired, so I bought it up, and pointed it to a newspaper report of the MD being done for kerbcrawling. They want it back now, but I sold it to a mate in Vietnam, and I think they have lost the will to fight their way thru the Vietnamese legal system !!
(4) .. I just remembered more petty revenge - the aforementioned HR Director has a distinctive surname and lives in a small village. The months following my dismissal saw "him" write a lot of letters to the local rag with some fairly extreme right wing views !!
(skyblue1987, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 12:27, Reply)

I'm never going to get fired from my current job
I work for myself. On the downside, management are cunts. On the upside, I do get free handjobs at work.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 15:45, Reply)

In my defence she didnt say what I had to do to it.
I used to work at what was then Safeway.
I had quite long hair, when down it covered most of my face (and it was an undercut or pissbowl style).
I was asked to tie my hair up, so the next day I came in with pig tails. Warning number one.
A few weeks later getting bored with ponytails I had a "fountain" (like a ponytail but smack bang on top of my head) Warning number two.
In my second warning meeting my supervisor pleaded with me to just do something with my hair please.

So I dyed it pillar box red and got the sack.
(Barry Chuckle has gone out in the thong to feed the pigeons, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 13:57, Reply)

I was "let go" from a club I worked in as a
lighting and laser programmer... as the new DJ coming in had his own "team" of "professional people"

Right.

His "team" were 2 wankers who I had spotted watching me work (and who had been asking rather too many questions for mere anoraks) and they thought all they had to do was "push a few buttons"

Well... yes, if they had not been so stupid to have been seen by me in the previous weeks I may not have wiped all the memories of all the controllers and took the backup discs home with me, (my discs - my work - so my property) leaving them to work out how everything worked. I even reset all the graphics and limiters on the sound system. (no physical damage you understand, I was not that sort of person)

Fucking amateurs.

They were told to get the bloke who installed the gear to give them the instruction manuals, and/or ask him to teach them how to work the controllers. Pity them when they found out it was a good mate of mine, who promptly told them the only person in this area qualified to program the laser desk was me, and the only person in Ireland (at that time) who could program the computer was also me.

The cabbage patch kids could not even work out how to switch the bloody power on, let alone use the controllers

I was back in 2 weeks later on a higher wage and with fewer hours.
( TBL I posted this on, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 19:18, Reply)

I once had a crap summer job working for British Gas...
Their flashy computer system crashed and none of us could do any work... I got bored... so I idly doodled the word 'Virus' across the screen in MS Paint.

I was fired for writing viruses.

I didn't even bother trying to argue with them... the job was just that shite.
( Beastie is doing science with his arse, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 13:41, Reply)

Slutty McSlut-Slut
Back in my days as a booze-peddler I'd reached the heady heights of Bar Manager by 19. Fired a 25-year-old barmaid for clearly having her fingers in the till. The following night she orally pleasured the 64-year-old landlord in the gents, got rehired in the new position of 'senior bar manager' and promptly sacked me. I wasn't prepared to employ the same tactics to get my job back. Bitch.
(oodles, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 13:49, Reply)

I used to work for the Securitas depot in Kent...
...until I got sacked.

I thought I'd get them back by robbing them of all their money. I'm now 40 million quid richer!!! Who's laughing now, eh?

Oop, one moment...someone's knocking very hard at the door. I'll be right bavsdisjoijreheousodridpopdop[s=======--00
(widdy, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 20:41, Reply)

Dogs = gay
After university, I spent a period working as a postman for the Royal Mail while I started looking for work as an actor. Apart from the early mornings the job was pretty reasonable, but after a while the same old houses and the same old letters get a bit tedious, so you have to start to look for entertainment.

So, there was this one house with a misted glass door that you could still see through pretty clear. Every morning when I posted the letters through the door, this dog would come running out barking and tear the letters to shreads. This was, of course, a source of much hilarity, and after discussing it with my workmates I decided to play with this dog's head.

The next day I walked up the driveway as normal, tore up the letters for this house and posted them through. I then spend the next 5 minutes laughing after watching the dog run out barking as normal and stop in complete bewilderment at the sight of the now torn up paper. I messed with his head good and proper, I did!

So I do this for a few days and every time this dumb dog would be equally confused. However, after I'd got into the habit of doing this, a couple of weeks later I tore up the letters, posted them through the door. No dog. Ah. It was only as I reached the pavement that I noticed the dog, walking down the pavement on a lead with his owner.

Got sacked, blah blah, you get the deal.
(dirty gypsy, Wed 1 Mar 2006, 17:47, Reply)

Mugs.
A few years ago I worked for a rather large company in the engineering world. They made a particular type of yellow digger.

Being cheesy and annoying, they continually tried to motivate people with buzzwords and shite like "blue sky thinking", Kaizen, and other such complete bollocks.

This company gave EVERYONE a mug. Upon these mugs was a slogan "We can't spell 'Success' without 'U'" 2 days later, they layed off Jim.

We went and got a mug made for him: "We can't spell 'Redundancy' without 'U'"
( Humpty Dumpty was Pushed Is unaware of having any limits., Sun 26 Feb 2006, 1:34, Reply)

My current job
I have a feeling i'm going to be laid off very soon. Apart from spending all my time on b3ta i am currently in the process of making 2 gummi bears have sex.

Pot noodles and Trisha here i come.
(chili_kitten Cheese, peas and honey bees, Thu 23 Feb 2006, 15:57, Reply)

My sister in law
blagged her way into a temp job many years ago at a legal firm. Among other things, she said she could type 60 words a minute, when, in reality, she could probably do about 6.

On her first (and last) day, one of the solicitors gave her a pile of urgent work to edit and type up.

They came in 2 hours later, and asked how she was doing. 'Fine', she said, 'nearly finished'. They came in again another hour later, and again another hour later - and so on throughout the day. 4pm came and went, and they were gradually getting more and more agitated and suspicious.

In the end, the solicitor told her that if she didn't have in finished in 10 minutes, the shit would really hit the fan.

So, she did the only thing she could think of at the time. She shut her office door, picked up the typewriter, and threw it on the floor. When they came running in, she said 'I don't know what happened - one minute I was typing, the next it just fell off the desk'. She was told to go home and not come back.
(8-Ball, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 13:08, Reply)

I'm a postman
I get the sack every day.
(David Fishwick Minibus Sales - notmad.co.uk, Fri 24 Feb 2006, 2:25, Reply)