I stuck it to a man once
but it fell off.


...fucking post-it notes
(Bret Mong Keys Eggs has wet his weapon, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 23:55, Reply)

Potential for man sticking...err...action? Is that the right term?
I'm waiting on payment from a client who've said "we didn't use your design so we don't have to pay you". They've had an invoice sent out, but it's looking like they might just ignore me until I go away. Only problem is I don't have a written contract, so it'd end up being a boring, long and expensive small claims court jobbie that I might not actually win.

After reading through all these, I'm seeing a few more suitable avenues. Let's have some suggestions, bonus points for any that feature nudity, bodily functions or a combination of both.

I am of course hoping it all works itself out fine in the end, with a minimum bum related protesting.

(Current front runner is standing outside with a big sign, but then I am quite boring)
(chuckle_h0und You furnish the pictures, I'll furnish the war, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 23:05, 5 replies)

Bluff comes up trumps
I once worked as a Duty Manager at a large pub and function centre in the North East. During a very slow winter the owner decided to give his gardener and brother the job of repainting all of the function room windows. This they did on a really windy day and in the process managed to splatter my car (which they hadn't bothered to ask me to move) with loads of spots of paint.

I of course was rather unimpressed. I complained to the general manager who promised to get it sorted out. It turned out that getting it "sorted out" (again without consulting me first) involved the same two fuckwits removing the paint with turps and brillo pads! I'm sure i don't need to go into detail about what a mess this made of my beloved motors' paintwork.

This time i went insane and demanded the area manager get involved, he apologised profusely and asked me to get some quotes from body shops to get it sorted. This i did, i found the five best paint shops in the area and got a quote from each one, passed them on to the area manager and was promised that, "i will speak to the owner and get back to you soon".

Nine months later nothing had happened, every time I asked about it I was fobbed off.

I decided to contact my union and after explaining what had happened they told me that as it had gone on for so long there was nothing I could do about it and to just put it down to experience. As I had recently handed in my notice I decided to take a chance on a massive bluff. I wrote to the area manager saying that I felt he had taken an “ignore it long enough and the problem will go away” stance and that if the paintwork wasn’t sorted before I left the company that “I will have no option other than to follow the advice given to me by my union”.

The bluff worked, a week later the car was in the best body shop in Hull getting a full respray with the added bonus that the damage done to my car by some twat in the car park at the Glastonbury Festival also got fixed!
(Fraz1172 Speak Softly but wear a loud shirt, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 20:29, 4 replies)

How to Get Rid of TV Licence Inspectors
A few years ago, I lived close to my parents. I'd just got back from a run, and was climbing into the shower when I remembered: I had half a suspicion that my mother'd be calling round that evening for some trivial reason.
"I bet the doorbell goes while I'm in here, I thought."

Sure enough, it did.

I clambered out, wrapped myself in a towel, and - dripping - went to open the door, expecting to let her in then finish my shower while she waited for me.

It wasn't my mother. It was a man in a beige anorak.
"TV Licencing," he offered. "I understand you don't have a licence for this property; I'm here to do an inspection. But... erm... well, I could come back some other time..."
"Um..." I said, "No worries. That'd be a waste of both our time. Come in; you can do your thing while I dry off a bit." I'm the spirit of helpfulness and efficiency when I want to be.
The inspector looked a bit flustered.
"Er... no. That's OK."
He never came back.

So that's how you get rid of TV licence inspectors. Just answer the door dripping wet, mostly naked, and offering to be helpful. Maybe a slightly maniacal grin, too, just to be certain.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 20:05, 1 reply)

The Police, and how i got them to smuggle me into a festival.
Okay i was poor, too poor to splash out on a festival ticket but i REALLY wanted to go to a specific one as all my mates were going and there was a decent line up.*

So... My friend drives me to the entrance of the festival, with the original idea that a few of them would enter the festival (with my bags) and one of them would remove their wristband and bring it out to me, allowing me to slip into the festival like the cheap bastard I am.

But... after waiting for half an hour, he hadn't returned and i was stood looking like a sore thumb, loitering around the security and generally being a nuisance. So that's when i decided to take matters into my own hands and attempt to sneak in.

Keep in mind that there were about four fields and a few fences between me and the festival, all of which involved not getting trampled by cows, spotted by security or the farmer. I wandered around to the side of a scrap yard which was pretty much at the side of the field that i needed to get into, but was dismayed to find a landrover full of security guards (probably waiting for types like me), so i waited and waited... and eventually the security guards drove off on patrol, giving me a couple of vital seconds to run across the scrap yard and jump over the fence into the field.

Good... Now i was a few fields away, i kept my head down and stuck to the edge of the field, using the hedges and long grass to conceal me. I made my way through the herd of cows and hopped into the next field... To find about seven other people trying to do exactly the same as i was...

'Hey mate, are you sneaking in?' they asked.
'Er yeah' i replied.
'Cool, come with us, we know a way in'

I gave this a moments thought, before deciding that i would take my own chances (realising that one person has a better chance of remaining unseen, than eight people do) and wished them good luck and decided to leave them.

I went my way and they went their way, and off i went - hopping over field after field, the sound of music getting closer and closer, I could now see the festival about a mile away. Only a small but deep brook and a mesh fence prevented me from getting any closer. At one point i realised that i would have to cross onto a parallel field which meant running across the security infested pathway inbetween, so i waited and waited and got my timing right and got across without being unseen.

At this point I began to feel a little like an escaped prisoner, escaping from the Nazi's and was quite proud of my progress. I kept going until i reached a farm yard (and beyond that was the final obstacle the running brook) and managed to get across the farm without being seen.... Or so i thought.

I found myself in the field with the brook, i was hot, tired and sweating from the excitement - But i was so close to the festival, i could smell the burger vans. I was just about to remove my trainers (ready to cross the water) when i heard a car pull up behind me. I quickly looked and saw the unmistakable paint work of a police car literally a few feet away from me, the only barrier between us being the hedgerow.

Shit! I hurled myself into the long grass and hid behind a bush. My heart was beating in my chest, my throat was dry. I watched two police officers walk into my field, they were looking for someone... They KNEW someone was in this field. Damn. Someone must have seen me.

I hid low to the ground, peering out beyond the grass and watched as the two police men vainly searched the field and eventually they left. I was amazed. I had managed to hide from the law.

I gave it a few minutes before standing up and again i was just about to remove my trainers and cross the brook when ANOTHER police vehicle, this time a land rover pulled up behind me and another police man entered the field. SHIT SHIT SHIT!

So again, i hid. But this time i was spotted.

I genuinely don't know what came over me, maybe it was the marajuana in my pockets, or the fact that i'd just evaded dozens of police and security, but something in my head went into automatic mode.

'Oh sorry man, i'm not actually hiding from you. I'm supposed to be working here, but i'm a day late and i need to get my wristband off my girlfriend but the security don't believe me and won't let me into the festival'

The copper looked at me, puzzled.

'Yeah so it's the security i'm hiding from, not you mate sorry, they've been funny with me and won't let me get to work'

The copper asked me to follow him to the landrover. I glanced through the rear window to see two other coppers inside. I thought 'shit, i'm busted'.

Then the copper recited what i'd said to him to his colleagues and after a few minutes of murmuring, one of the coppers asked me if i wanted to use his mobile phone to ring my 'imaginary' girlfriend so she could come outside and bring me my wristband.

'Sure, thankyou very much'

The first copper told me to hop into the back seat and the other copper passed me his mobile phone.

I didn't actually have a girlfriend at that point, but my friend Becky would do. I rang her number, all the time VERY aware that i could smell a strong odour of marajuana leaking from my pocket, whilst crammed in the landrover with three coppers. The phone rang, she answered.

'Oh hello Becky, i'm just outside now yeah... Yeah i'm nearly there, i'm in a police vehicle, on their phone yeah... Be a dear and bring my wristband would you, i'm near the main gate?'

I tried to act calm, when she started asking why i was in a police vehicle, mainly ignoring her and just uttering the words 'yeah cool, yeah yeah... Okay see you soon'

I handed the phone back to the copper and asked him if he could be so kind as to drive me through the car park (thus avoiding yet another wristband / security check) to the main gates where my 'girlfriend' would be meeting me with my wristband.

And he bloody did. He drove me to the main gates, where i spotted my friend Becky and sure enough she had a 'spare' wristband for me, which i showed to the police and they told me i was fine to go.

I thanked them and they told me to 'enjoy the festival' and as i clumsily attempted to fit my hand through the narrow wrist band (which was too small for me), i waved them off with the biggest smile on my face and walked through the gates into the madness.

Good days.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 18:39, 4 replies)

I have stuck it to the man in my own quiet way
by taking my paycheck but never doing an honest day's work for 20 years
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 18:30, 3 replies)

Yet another idiot boss story.
I traveled a lot from the US to Europe and the UK. He traveled some...as it would happen one day we ended up on the same flight home from Gatwick. We board the plane and I park my arse in business class - see, I'd had the knowledge and experience to game the system and wheedle an upgrade. He didn't. He tramped by, glared at me and went back to the very back row of the aircraft. As if it was my fault he was a dickhead...
( HairyTwatter certified eel and sodium salesman, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 18:09, Reply)

Once when I was answering a QOTW
it finished whilst I was still typing. So I posted it in the new QOTW anyway.

www.b3ta.com/questions/helpdesk/post526729, see?

Haha fuck you Rob, and the horse you rode in on.

*flicks the v's at the monitor. Gets funny look from missus
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 17:52, 1 reply)

Well there is nothing like rewengie
One summer before I joined university, I spent some time working in a tree nursery. It was quite a nice job. There were 4 of us working there. We had a giggle, and most of our days would be spend riding around on an ancient tractor, drinking gallons of tea and listening to Atlantic 252 (no age lulz please!)

We were good an efficient at our job. Most of the morning was spent "pricking out" (no laughing at the back there) which was by far the most tedious part of the job, but we got it over with early in the day for a relaxed afternoon. Pricking out involves removing seedlings from a large tray and planting them in individual containers so that they could grow to be big and strong trees. Hurrah!

Anyhow, so far, so rurally idyllic and dull. Well yes. This was apart from Darren, the supervisor. The company I worked for ran 2 sites about 20 miles apart. Darren was supposed to run between the two and make sure everything was running smoothly. Unfortunately as he lived closer to our nursery, he spent most of his time here. He was a cunt. First of all he looked like he'd nicked the overbite from a horse. To coin a phrase, he had teeth that the druids could use as a place of worship. He was the kind of git who would patronise you from the word go, whilst making sure that you got the full benefit of his masterful experience at all things, from planting trees to making sweet sweet lovin to "the laydeez" (most likely in the back of his Honda Accord.) He was that cock who had been everywhere and done everything, even though anything he said was clearly a tissue of lies that could have been picked apart by a 3 year old. Oh, and he refused to allow us to have the radio on when he was there, because "we don't get paid to listen to music."

One particular day, Darren had turned up smelling as usual like unwashed cock. He insisted on "helping" us take out the saplings to the poly tunnels in the afternoon. By helping, he sat in the tractor braying helpful instructions through the window whilst we did all the lifting and shifting, plotting how we could kill him without leaving too much of a stain. Around this time, a huge thunderstorm blew up. It was company policy (not to mention common fucking sense) that no staff should be outside at this time. However Darren did not see it like that. We all took shelter in the poly tunnels, whilst Darren stood there and shouted at us how we would all be docked wages etc etc. But we'd had enough. We were not for moving.

Eventually Darren the Git had had enough. He got out of the tractor and strode over to us in the pouring rain. As he got near, the wet ground meant he lost his footing, making him slip and fall....onto a garden cane that was supporting a row of young saplings. He impaled himself in his belly flab. No damage, but he started running around like some kind of massive-toothed freak screaming and flapping at the still-inserted cane.

"Ah" I said, turning to one of my colleagues. "It looks like a Stick In Git Toothy Man."

Sorry.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 18 Jun 2010, 16:59, 5 replies)

My boss was bullying me
so I shat in the toilets!

He must have been completely humiliated, because he never even mentioned it.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 16:50, Reply)

Not another Honda Accord
This one is about my wife's Vauxhall Corsa.

In 1996 herself decided she wanted a new car and duly chose a spanking new Rio Verde (green) pearlescent Vauxhall Corsa Premier 1.2. As she's a nurse, the car would regularly be parked on the shonky hospital car park, protected only by poor lighting and convicted sex offenders (a post for another time), so she opted to pay an extra £270 for the official Vauxhall alarm system that was Thatcham category 1 rated.

Unfortunately, the alarm was a dealer-fit item, and we subsequently discovered that they didn't know what they were doing.

The alarm was of the type that automatically armed 30 seconds after you got out of the car, and required you to reset it by going back into the car and pressing a dongle against a dashboard-mounted plate.

In practice, this meant that the missus just had time to park outside the house, lock the car, find her house keys and open the front door to the house, before the alarm set itself and immediately went off. At the end of a late shift, or in the early morning following a night shift, that made us very unpopular with the neighbours.

Over the course of the next couple of months, when we could spare the time from work, the car went back to the dealers five times. On each occasion, they completely failed to find any fault. In the end, I told them I wanted the alarm removed and a full refund.

They removed the alarm promptly enough, but pissed about when it came to giving us back the money. They claimed that they couldn't refund us until Vauxhall had approved the refund. Unfortunately for them, I knew enough of the law to know our contract was with the dealer and it was their responsibility to pay us back. It was irrelevant if they ever got their money off Vauxhall.

After seven weeks of snotty phone calls and snottier letters, we'd had enough. The dealer's premises was adjacent to a small council-owned pay & display car park, so we formed a plan.

As an impecunious, then childless, couple, our weekend days were often spend lazing around doing very little so we decided we'd park the Corsa next to the dealer's entrance and make a small protest.

We covered the car in balloons and mounted two big printed signs on it saying "(name of dealer)'s customer service is rubbish if you have a problem with your car" and "expect to fight to get your money refunded even if you're legally entitled to it" (or something like that). And we stayed there all day Saturday, and returned on the Sunday, passing the time by reading newspapers, writing out our Christmas cards and drinking Thermos coffee - oh, and chatting to numerous potential customers who came to find out what had pissed us off so much.

We were also approached a couple of times by staff asking if they could help, before they phoned someone senior and were obviously warned off. Before we left on the Sunday, we told them that unless we got our money back, we'd be there the following weekend too, and every one thereafter.

By a strange coincidence, the cheque was ready for us on the Monday, along with a letter saying they didn't want our business any more. Surprise, that.

Yes, I know it was a petty and fairly weak protest, but we felt better for it and, hopefully, contributed to them losing the Vauxhall franchise the following year.

Apologies for length, monster drugs, etc.
( Snappyuk gets BIGGER with free sample., Fri 18 Jun 2010, 16:50, 8 replies)

Does your depty Area manager count?
So after leaving the Army and doing various other things I needed a proper part time job to help fund my Uni studies. I started work for a company and got on great with the other staff, until our manager goes on holiday for two weeks and the assistant area manager is sent in to cover his holiday.
I was a bit older than most staff because most were straight out of school and at uni, where I had been out and about for about 6 years before returning to education. So the Deputy area manager was a couple of years younger than me, I have no problems working under someone with less life experiance than me as long as they are not a twat.
Unfortunately this guy was, he also had a beard but calling it a beard is a long way off what it actually was, a collection of overgrown bumfluff that would have made many a 12 year old boy scoff.
Anyhoooooo after a week of listening to his crap and have him try to put me in my place I let him have it, I had booked in holiday time for my anniversary months in advance but due to his shit rota creating skills he hadn't bothered to check who was on holiday. long story short he wanted me to change my plans and come in to work.
I went completely beserk at him (I'm really just an angry man looking for any excuse to start a fight) I pointed out that it was his job to check these things, not mine to remind him whilst he is making a rota. At this he told me to show a little respect to his elders.
I had 4 years on him.
"Elders!? Mate when you were still in school I was in Iraq playing dodge the mortar, by the time you started this job I had done three tours protecting the country from the queens enemies. You want me to show some respect for a pompus kid who thinks that by being paid 30 pence an hour more than me makes him some sort of god and tries to look older by sporting the saddest excuse for facial hair I have ever seen. You son should be showing some respect for your elders. So sort the rota out like you are supposed to, there's a good boy."
Not to be put off by my red faced out burst and trying to claw back some face infornt of the rest of the staff.
"I ment superiors."
"Excuse me? Superior, you think you are better than me? I'm some sort of second class citizen am I? What exactly makes you superior to me?"
At this point he mumbled something and walked off, I went back to work in the unease that can only be created when someone goes completely off their rocker at someone else in full view.

Next day he had shaved off his beard an magically found cover for that day. I'm a little sad he shaved off the bumfluff if I am honest as even customers made fun of it. Once when someone asked to speak to the manager and he replied he was, the old dear said "Really? Are you sure?" whilst staring at his chin garden.
( Laird Dave Draws Now charges to take off his clothes., Fri 18 Jun 2010, 16:49, 6 replies)

You know what boils my piss?
Well, as I get older, virtually everything, I'm afraid.

Seriously though, part of the problem with these wins over authoritah is that you have actually only succeeded in making them do the CUNTING JOB THAT YOU PAY THEM TO DO IN THE FIRST PLACE (and breathe...)It's like when you get a tax rebate from the HMRC after 3 hours of your life wasted on/hold/on the website/filling in forms only to realise when you get the cheque that it was always your money in the first place. And do they pay interest? Do they fuck.

The problem here is that the vast majority of us cannot be fucked to actually take our problems to the stage where we actually have to give up our hard-earned time to get what we rightfully own. Companies rely on our "ah, fuck it" factor when something becomes too complicated.

Let me give you an example.

The Carrothusband is one of these weird inbred people who has not past his driving test (car or Honda Accord). As is required and expected, I roundly mock him for his lack of driving skillz. So anyway, he decided to go for lessons with a particular driving school (think of a company that drive bright yellow breakdown trucks). His instructor persuaded him to pay £220 for a block of 15 lessons. Unfortunately, after the 3rd lesson, his instructor either took a seat on the carousel or was abducted by aliens. Basically, he disappeared. The...company refused to accept that Carrothusband had paid £220, even though he had a receipt for it and it went through the...company's central computer. I know. I was there when he phoned up to pay. They refused to offer any more lessons or do anything for him.

It took us 3 cunting months, a good dozen letters, a phonecall to Trading Standards and eventually the threat of legal action before we got to the stage of "you know what - our lives are not worth this." So we let it go. Part of me wishes we hadn't, but you know what...sometimes you just cannot be arsed.

So, please avoid AA Driving School like the plague. They have all the business acumen and customer service abilities of a pile of donkey vomit, without any of its picturesque charm or joie de vivre.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Fri 18 Jun 2010, 16:37, 9 replies)

The council are such a bunch of cunts
I was a bit late paying my council tax bill in April and they had the bare-faced cheek to send me a snotty red “Final Demand” letter, not only requesting immediate payment for the outstanding debt but they had the ruddy nerve to demand payment for the next month as well. I know my rights and I wasn’t having that! Seething with righteous indignation I got right on the Internet and paid the bill for the entire year IN FULL.

Needless to say I haven’t heard from them since.

Hang on…

( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 15:56, 9 replies)

I stuck it to the man really fast...
I briefly got to stick it to 'the man', in true r-r-radical student style, via Channel 4 News: www.youtube.com/watch?v=HioJhdwj0uk (about 27 seconds in if you wanna skip Jon Snow).

The effectiveness of the attack was clearly severly diminished as the man couldn't understand a word I said. Nor could anyone else for that matter.

That's definitely why capitalism still exists.
(bolshevette, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 15:24, 1 reply)

Not me, but my Great Uncle Walter
During the invasion of Germany in 1944, he and a couple of his patrol surprised a couple of Germans hiding in a barn. One of them made a run for it, so Walter legged him up and then hoofed him in the clockweights.

Rather than Hondas, drugs and supermodels, he smoked woodbines, got lucky with a couple of French girls, and in 1948 runover my grandad's foot in his Austin 7.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 15:12, 3 replies)

Sticking it to the (Danish) man...
Yes, it's a pea. And apologies for the length, your Mum gave a rave review :P

Cast your minds back to a time when you were 18, just out of A levels (or just finishing them), and looking forward to dealing with life. Like many of my peers, I got it into my head that I wanted to go abroad and do development work. I found an organisation via a newspaper advert, signed up at the recruitment weekend in Hull, and then straight after my last exam I jetted off to Denmark to train to do what I wanted to do for six months. The basic idea was that I would train in Denmark, then head out to Africa to do stuff like building toilets, educating people about AIDS, general well meaning stuff. You get the idea.

Well, the first mistake happened when I arrived- that is, because they forgot I was arriving. I was sat in the bloody airport for three hours before thinking "screw it" and got a taxi to where I was staying, making sure I charged it to the company.

Anyways, about a month in, we were all put to work to clean up the school where we went to train. Myself and a friend were working on the library, and I happened on a book with a very interesting title- The History of North Korea. I read it, and had a laugh at was essentially some very weak propaganda from our friends in Asia. And then I threw it out, thinking nothing of it.

Another interesting occurrence was when the school decided to have a sing-along session. Fine and dandy, but we decided not to go because we had plans of our own, mainly involving lounging around and doing nothing. One of the teachers basically busted in, and ordered us out. She seemed most put out when I stayed where I was... I don't think she was equipped to deal with a narky English teenager who wasn't in a mood to put up with bullshit.

The final straw came when I found a website called tvindalert (have a look around, I think it's still out there) and noticed several odd things about this supposed "charity" I had signed up with. First of all, there had recently been a police raid at their headquarters. Secondly, there were allegations of money laundering, tax evasion, false accounting, brainwashing, and best of all... gun running. Not forgetting wage slavery and shoddy treatment of its' workers. So, not liking what I was reading, I emailed the link to my Dad who was a journalist at the time. He emailed back saying "it's real... get out of there!". Oh crap.

Anyways, I started to email the creator of the website in order to formulate an escape plan. The only problem was, what was meant to be a private email was posted on the website, which was monitored by the lovely people I was working with. Here's where the story gets interesting: we were just about to go on an outward bound weekend, when I was pulled off the bus, regarding the email that had been sent. I was put in an office, on my own, with a large pissed off Danish man, oddly enough called Rene. He couldn't understand why I wasn't afraid of him- come to think of it, neither can I. Blind anger, I guess.

So, after an hour or so of him trying to intimidate me, and me making a fool out of him, he tells me to leave the office. Here's the fun part. I get in contact with my Mum over msn- and she actually phoned up this guy and threatened him with coming over there herself with a presspack and making life *very* difficult if he didn't pay for a flight home and put me on the plane. Suffice it to say I got the plane on the tacit understanding I wouldn't contact the media. Which I did the very next day.

As a postscript to this, the leader of this cult is now on trial, the place where I was staying has closed, and the whole organisation seems thoroughly tits up.

If that isn't sticking it to the man, I'm not sure what is.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Fri 18 Jun 2010, 15:01, 4 replies)

One guy who used to work in our office
had various written and verbal warnings about not doing his job. He was on his final warning and on one particular day he sat there cutting off a number of phonecalls from customers, as he really couldn't be arsed anymore.

A temporary supervisor saw this and reported him to HR about it, and he was quickly carted off to a meeting.

"I'm very sorry to say that after all the other warnings you have been given, we have to let you go."
"Ahhhh...ok, to be honest I have been struggling here. Thanks for putting up with me for so long, and is it possible for me to just get my stuff and say goodbye to a few of my friends?"

HR agreed, and the guy sulkily gets up and leaves the meeting room a bit downtrodden but not going postal.

That was until he got to his desk, where the temp supervisor was standing. The agent walked calmly upto him, then proceeded to batter 10 shades of shit out of him in front of about 100 staff. Security run in from reception and literally had to drag him off the guy and hurl him out of the building.

No thanks, I don't fancy that new supervisory position that's going, you can keep it.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 15:00, Reply)

Jesus Christ
I'm still waiting for someone to show they have balls and do something properly anarchistic.

Every answer this week seems to be, 'I did something menial, petty and infantile to cause someone else some inconvenience to give me a small sense of satisfaction that I've 'stuck it to the man' when in fact all I've done is prove what an utter coward I am'.

Photocopied paperclips? Flipped the bird at a traffic warden? Claimed £1.42 back from officialdom? Stuffed junk mail into envelopes and posted it back? Come on guys, where are the stories about storming up to the CEOs office and punching them in the face? Blowing up your boss's car in revenge for him shafting your wife?

Seems very tame, that's all. Where are the b3tans' balls?

*Puts on flame-proof jacket and waits for keyboard warriors to begin their attack*
(hangableautobulb is an anagram of the best album ever, on, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 14:39, 20 replies)

I was told this one by Kitty O'Hara's Dad a while back.

I can't remember if it was him or one of the other lads on the ship but anyway.

Apparently when he was training on the boat, the Captain the called down to the lower deck and whoever it was answered to phone (probably a cup on a piece of string all those years ago!) in a non-courteous manner, the Captain bellowed 'Do you know who this is?' and the junior said 'no' the Captain said 'this is the Captain of this boat you will answer the phone in the correct manner' the junior replied 'do you know who this is?' Capt says 'no' and the junior just hung up.

Made me laugh anyway, he did tell it better though, sorry.
(Kip, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 14:27, 6 replies)

I'm not normally the type to stick it to The Man
Actually it’s the reverse, considering I slept with those coppers. But I do have one tale re: my intractable gym.

When I first joined [chain] gymnasium they were sweetness and light itself; smiling demoniacally false smiles as they signed me up to their diabolical contract of doom.

At first, it was all fine. But then I found I was being moved over to long, hideous night shifts for 3 whole months.

Given the life-sapping agony that this would inflict upon my life, I knew I would never be able to use the gym. I was fairly close to the end of my contract; surely there would be some flexibility? Could I not get my account put 'on hold' until I could use the gym again, rather than waste my money?

'THERE IS NO FLEXIBILITY IN THE CONTRACT,' intoned frigid phone-witch.

'But, see, I just want to put this all on hold for while, ' I tried explaining, wondering where the bubbly sweetness that they signed me up with had bubbled off to. 'I mean, I still want to stay a member of your fine gymnasiums, but there surely must be some kind of provision for this kind of thing? Like when someone is unable to use the gym or can't pay for a while. It would be a terrible shame if I were to have to wait until the end of my contract and then cancel it: I'd have wasted two months worth of gym membership and you would lose all my future business.'

'THERE IS NO FLEXIBILITY IN THE CONTRACT,' intoned frigid phone-witch.

'So there is really nothing you can recommend here?' I asked, lightly aghast at this implacable frostiness. 'No way we can come to some mutually beneficial workaround?'

'NO. THERE IS NO FLEXIBILITY IN THE CONTRACT,' intoned frigid phone-witch.

'Well, I guess you had better make sure my account is cancelled as soon as it expires.' Says I sourly. So much for the cheery company motto, and so much for those old adages 'those who don't ask don't get' and 'the customer is always right.'

I knew it had been a long shot to ask, but I had at least expected human sympathy - fool that I am - and not an icy bitch-drone.

Sadly, the iciness only extended to phone-witch's manner, not to icy efficiency. They didn't want to cancel my contract, and felt compelled to ring me several times to say so. Particularly when I was trying to sleep after working solid nights, it seemed.

Furthermore, when I was signing up, they carefully didn't mention the nasty rules regarding notices periods and so on. I ended up paying another 3 months extra to the infamous bastards.

I'd come off nights by then, and rather than cut off my nose to spite my face, I decided to use those three months. Hell, I'd paid, after all.

I found out that I had a much nearer gym owned by [chain] and persuaded my mate to join me at this closer one, and use up my remaining months.

My duly contract expired.

My gym membership never did.

Apparently, using a different gym to the one I signed up at proved too much for [chain], putting me quite beyond their harpy-eye.

I've been using their gym for going on three years now, but I only ever paid for half a year! I even went back to the original gym and asked for the sign-up papers again. They never came.

Not exactly a tale of sticking it to The Man - more a case of my wandering past the oblivious man in bafflement - but I do get to watch lots of men get sticky for free...
(IChewCandlewax, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 14:23, 8 replies)

Postal Offerings - Sticking It To The Wife!
Whenever we get mail addressed to "the occupier" I give it to the wife as she's Jewish!

Hahahaha!

Well that's not strictly true, she's not Jewish really. I just sold a copy of her passport to Mossad.

Guffaw! Japes!

Okay, that's not true either.

This question of the week doesn't work for me. I try to completely avoid confrontation at all costs.
I even clear my desk at work each night so the cleaner doesn't leave me disgruntled Post-It notes.
( Dervel OTBC, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 14:19, Reply)

I wrote
'Ho Chi Minh is a wanker' on a wall in Hanoi. That was really sticking it to the 'Nam.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 14:05, 4 replies)

Stick(y)ing to the man
I was diagnosed with type II diabetes a few years ago, and mostly I behave myself around booze and sugar, but today is my colleagues birthday and he has brought in Krispy Kreme donuts! I have had 2 already so "fuck you Doctors"*

*I promise not to have any more for another 6 months :-)
(urgle-splurgle molesting small goats since, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 13:45, 2 replies)

The Honda Accord (*) Tax Disc of Justice
Well, if we’re doing correspondence...

Not so much sticking it to the man, more life conspiring to stick it to the man for me.

I got the first letter about six months after I bought my tax disc. The entire correspondence (which was pre email being used as the primary communication tool) took place over the following six months. Note: exact wording may have been changed.

Dear Ms Rakky,
It has come to our attention that during the purchase of your most recent vehicle tax disc, the moron at the post office charged you the incorrect amount for the disc. Thus we require you to return the disc to us immediately so that we can issue you with a new one, reflecting the correct price and send you the balance which you have over paid of £1.73.
Lots of love
The DVLA

Dear DVLA,
Gosh, thank you so much for bringing this to my attention. I would be happy to do so, but, could you please advise me? My car is parked on the street; removing the tax disc will mean that it will be sat there untaxed, I won’t be able to drive it until you issue the new disc and I don’t really want to incur the wrath of the Old Bill. What should I do about this?
Kisses
Rakky

Dear Ms Rakky,
Further to our previous correspondence it has come to our attention that you have not returned your tax disc as requested. Naughty naughty. Please do this immediately, or bad things will happen to you.
All the Best
The DVLA

Dear DVLA,
Hi again, thanks so much for getting back to me. See, the problem is, as I pointed out, if I send you my tax disc, I have no tax disc. Will your records show that my vehicle is taxed, but there is no disc? So if there is a problem with the police they’ll be able to see that it’s all fine? I really don’t know how this works. I have no problem complying with your request, I’d just like a bit of help. I tried calling your help line (you should really think about changing the name of it by the way, maybe to “Sitting on hold being shunted from department to department until you’re finally cut off line”, it would be more accurate.)
Take care now,
Rakky

Dear Ms Rakky,
Further to our previous correspondence it has come to our attention that you have not returned your tax disc as requested. We’re going to come round and put salt in your sugar bowl and read your diary and make a kitten wee on your pillow, just out of spite, because we don’t like evil little girls who don’t send their tax disc back we when ask them to.
Cheers
The DVLA

Dear DVLA,
Oh please don’t do that, I don’t want kitten wee on my nice fluffy pillow. See, I just want you to send me a piece of paper, like a letter, like the ones you keep sending me, saying that you’re replacing the disc. I don’t think that’s a lot to ask, really. I just really don’t want my car parked on the street without a disc, nor do I want to be pulled over for driving a car with no tax disc visible. I got pulled over by a shouty policeman once before, I didn’t like it and it made me a bit scared, so I’d prefer it not to happen again. I’m a very law abiding person and I’m really only asking for some advice here. I tried phoning again, but a welsh lady answered and gave me another number to call and when I called it made that screechy fax machine noise so I called her back but it’s been engaged for 3 days – do you think she may have left the phone off the hook or fallen and not been able to get up? I hope she's okay...
Anyway, hope you’re enjoying the sunshine!
Rakky

Dear Ms Rakky,
Send us your tax disc or we’ll have you deported. To Iran. Where your sort belong.
Warmest Wishes
The DVLA

Dear DVLA
Please find enclosed my tax disc as requested. Sorry if it’s a bit crispy round the edges. My car got nicked by a bunch of chavs in Bristol and was found as a burnt out shell in Hartcliffe, so I’ve had to have it scrapped. Ironically, this happened on the day before I went to buy a new tax disc as this one was about to expire. Isn’t life funny like that, eh? Don’t worry, I’ve done all the paperwork and I guess I won’t need this disc anymore. Anyway, you can call off the ninja kittens now.
It’s been a rollercoaster and I’ll miss our chats.
Rakky

I got a cheque for £1.73 in the post a week later. I spent it on pop and crisps.

(*) Actually a Vaxhaull Nova, but let's face it, no one ever shagged a supermodel or did massive drugs in one of those.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 13:33, 26 replies)

I shop at Co-op
A lot of their produce is reasonably priced, and I like the fact they send all their profits to our comrades in Russia and China.

Anyway they've got this new thing on the machine you put your card in, that asks you questions; "was our store clean and tidy?", "do you think we should save the bees". Anyway, this morning it said "did you know we sell insurance?" and I pressed "no" even though I knew that they did.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 13:33, 2 replies)

Cops at Anti-Shell demo
Protest against what Shell is doing in Ireland. I was holding the camera.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmhZEwymTjM
(StripeyCat, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 13:30, 4 replies)

Cyclist gets owned by Jaguar
A sunny spring morning last year found me cycling from the station to my office, which lies just two hundred yards from Trafalgar Square. Seeing as Horse Guards Lane was closed to road traffic that day, I had to run the gauntlet of Whitehall.

Being such a lovely morning, I wasn’t in any spectacular hurry so I pedalled in time with the ebb and flow of traffic and kept tucked into the inside lane. I was dimly aware that a large, grey and new Jaguar was occupying the next lane to my right.

I didn’t give it much further thought until after I’d passed the Treasury buildings when the Jag surged forward and swung to the left, cutting across my lane but without any indication whatsoever.

Incensed, an involuntary but heartfelt “You fucking twat!” left my mouth as I grabbed my brakes to avoid T-boning the expensive car, which was now being waved through the Police checkpoint at Downing Street.

Still fuming, I rode around the Jaguar and made a gesture at the driver while the diminutive redheaded woman in the back seat did her best to look nervously away.

From what I gather, Ms Blears was on her way to receive a bollocking from someone a hell of a lot more important than I, upon reflection I'm pleased to have gotten in first.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 18 Jun 2010, 13:07, 1 reply)

job interview...
not funny but i thought i'd share it with you.
over the years like many people i've right royally failed at job interviews and on many occasions taken abuse and rude comments from my would-be managers.

personally i've always thought this behaviour is unprofessional, arrogant and unfair, after all the interviewee has made the effort to visit them. i'm sure most of you have been in a similar position.

i went for an interview at for a job as a recruitment consultant at hays, the set up was pretty much a good-cop bad-cop situation with an interview with two self indulgent fuck-with managers.

obviously the bad-cop was the more cretinous of the two, with an sense of arrogance & overly proud of percentages and typical boring shite that doesn't really matter in overall existence.

he started by saying "well martyn, i am very impressed with your CV, i can see you can make an impact here, but i have to say i am disappointed!"

"eerr? why?" was my reply.
"well you've got your name tag on from your current job, your tie is 'snaking' down your shirt and your shoes aren't leather, it's just unprofessional".

Sensing this interview wasn't going any where i had to interrupt:
"look, can i stop you there, where is this interview going? i've made an effort with time off work and i already feel that this interview isn't going any where. if this is the case i may as well leave now and get back to earning some money and not waist any further time".

"well that depends on how you feel, do you feel that you can salvage this interview and impress me?" he replied, then going on to state that i could be earning up to £3k a month. "if you feel this interview isn't going anywhere then you're welcome to leave, i must say though that you're appearance just isn't good enough, you've got to ask your self is it worth it?"

deciding for a brief few seconds, i eventually made my mind up and informed them "well you mentioned my appearance is 'unprofessional', i a vegan which is why my shoes aren't leather. i'm not sure what 'snaking' mean but the general rule of gravity usually cause ties run down shirts and as for the name tag... this was given to me by your receptionist, it's the name tag for this very interview, it even has your company's name on it...

...you also asked me if i feel it's worth trying to impress you. although the money is tempting, it still would never be worth working with a manager as self indulgent as your self. so i'm calling an end to this interview, you simply aren't worth it."


upon leaving i even handed him the "unprofessional" name tag. leaving that building felt so good, i felt more proud for sticking it to the man than i ever would if had i got the job.
(sweatytramp, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 12:43, 14 replies)

Tax doesn't have to be taxing
Yes it does, and it is.

A few years back when I was self employed, I had to fill in a self assessment form every year and would then be contacted to let me know how much tax I owed. This wasn’t much of an issue, until I started my new job with a local company.

I contacted the tax office and let them know that I was no longer self employed and they told me to ignore the self assessment form that they had already sent me. A few months down the line, I received a letter stating that I owed £100 for not returning my self assessment form in time. A couple of phone calls later, I had resolved the problem, and I asked them to update their records, which they assured me they had.
The following year, I received yet another form followed by another £100 fine a few months later. Once again, I phoned up and explained the situation but it wasn’t so straightforward – they wanted to know further information; why I was no longer self-employed, since when, etc. A letter arrived days later. Angry and frustrated, I penned the following:


Dear Mr. Tax Person,

I am sat writing this letter with tears of frustration trickling slowly down each cheek. A Question of Sport is on in the background and Sue Barker looks quite nice, but I digress.
Two years ago, I informed you that I was no longer self employed and I received a credit for £100 after wrongly being charged for not returning my self assessment form by the deadline. I was told that your records had been updated. Why then, have I received another charge this year, even though I am no longer self employed, and have been paying tax on a monthly basis? (please see enclosed proof)

To answer the questions posed in your letter to me (a copy also enclosed)

1.I ceased trading in March 2004
2.I know that this date is correct because it was the month my cat died. Thanks for bringing back the bad memories. I miss Goliath a great deal, he was fantastic. My self assessment form for the period prior to this clearly states that I had ceased trading in March on the 'Other notes' section.
3.No, I haven’t had any work that would qualify under the self employed bracket since I started my new job. The reason why I started my new job was because I didn’t have any work in the first place. Yesterday, I found 20p in the street. Do I have to declare this?

I would appreciate it if you could update your records as soon as possible, as I am slowly going mental. The tune that plays when I’m on hold to your colleagues is nauseating and on more than one occasion I’ve thought about opening a vein.

Please can I receive another credit against the £100 incorrectly charged?

Regards,
MtC

PS –Remember to update your records
PPS – Check that the point in 'PS' has been actioned


A few weeks letter, the credit arrived. Although I didn’t gain anything monetary wise, it made me happy. It’s always good to get things off your chest.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 18 Jun 2010, 12:32, 5 replies)