Shark attack
I was twenty and working as a Retail Supervisor at a popular seaside tourist attraction. This consisted of looking after a gift shop of overpriced tat, an ice cream hut dispensing frozen swirly bacteria and 13 disillusioned, overworked zero-hour contract temps.

The manager of the centre was a chainsmoking toilet-mouthed misogynistic cunt and a half and, besides demanding I worked hideously long shifts for buttons, expected me to carry out 'events' on a regular basis to boost visitor traffic. Disappointed at my apathy in this area, he insisted I implemented one of his cracking ideas.

Christmas in August! Woo yay. Disillusioned temps in Santa hats, snow spray all over the windows, threadbare tinsel wound round the till.

One of my 'team' was a graduate management trainee, a pustule-ridden cliche-trotting bundle of keenness and short-man syndrome to rival aforementioned cunty boss called Gareth. We all had to take turns dressing up as the centre mascot, Shaky the Shark. A rancid outfit consisting of flea-bitten royal blue fur in fucking dungarees.

To cut a long story short(ish)... it was Gareth's turn in the shark. He approached me holding mistletoe. One look at his fuzzy-felt yellowed teeth and a red mist descended.

One very unladylike left hook later, and I exited the said visitor attraction, minus one job and stepping over Shaky as I went.

*pop*
( weebear1974 discovering the joy of cat rape since, Mon 27 Feb 2006, 17:03, Reply)