Not me
but my mate, whom we shall call Martin, for tis his name...

We all went out drinking after work one night, ended up in Burger King, then back to the pub, and finished up with a kebab. Yes we were fat bastards, but it felt soooo right at the time!

Anyway, all of this wanton bingeing took its toll on Martin's guts the next day at work, he arrived looking a very strange shade of green, think of those trebor softmints and you're on the right lines.

So, he manages to grimace through an hour of team meeting and then leaves the room for about 30 minutes, re-emerges looking slightly greener (probably green tic tac at this stage) and wafts of putrid odour following him into the room. If you have ever heard the song "Chemical Warfare" by Slayer then Martin's arse was singing a fine tribute.

Several people started retching after his post-nuclear rectal fall-out so the boss woman got the short straw to take him home. In her brand new Jag.

Martin, obviously in quite a state, didnt realise he had small flecks of necrotised shite all down the back of his legs, the smell of his carrion based bowel linings must have seeped in to her plush new leather seats as she kept complaining that the aircon stunk for weeks...
(Suomi_Finland_Perkele knocking 256 shades of shit out of your screen on, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 19:57, Reply)