And that's the thanks I gotOn getting screwed over by people for whom you were doing a favour:
I spent several weeks helping my best friend - a complete layabout - with his A-Level computer science project so he wouldn't fail his course. In the end, he did so little work I actually ended up doing the whole thing for him in a half-term week I should really have spent revising for my own exams.
I got back to college to find that while I was hunched over a red-hot BBC Micro, he had spent the week screwing my girlfriend.
Then he didn't bother sitting the exam because "I'm going to fail anyway".
And that's the thanks I got. How have you been screwed over whilst doing someone a favour?
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Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 24 May 2007, 10:20)
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Drunks...As the original good samaritan I love a lost cause.
On our way home from a movie one night, my ex-wife and I met a little ole lady stumbling from a city bus, shopping trolley in tow... I gallantly dashed forward to help the old dear to the pavement. She grabbed my hand gratefully and looked pleadingly up at me and said... "Can you help me home, I can't walk!"
T'was true, she couldn't walk. This was partly due to the fact that her beltless trousers were residing somewhere around her knees and she was completely rat arsed.
"I'll tell you what," says I. "hang on here and I'll go and fetch my car and give you a lift."
"OK" says she. I pop into a kiosk and ask them to keep an eye on the old woman ouside while I get the car. On hearing this she pipes up...."I'm not a woman, I'm a man. I'm the king of Copenhagen!"
I apologise and set of for home and the wheels. Five minutes later and he's still waiting for the ride, bollocks. Ah well. As I wrestle his shopping trolley into the boot it clinks in an ominous fashion and several unidentifed liquids spill out into the trunk.
I help "The King" into the car and notice an interesting odour. Kind of a musty, yoghurty smell, unpleasant yet strangely intruiging... I also spy something that resembles well padded underwear protruding from the waistline of his strides. I should have twigged...
After 15 minutes of scouring the streets of Copenhagen for a landmark the King could recognise, we finally find his flat. I carry his trolley up four flights of stairs and descend to help him out of the car.
We somehow negotiate the stairs and I leave him fumbling for his keys... Once back in the car, I notice that the smell has not disappeared with its initiator. I turn on the cabin light to be met with the sight of day old, marinated piss seeping gently into the front passenger seat.
Ta.
(, Fri 25 May 2007, 1:02, Reply)
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