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This is a question Sticking it to The Man

From little victories over your bank manager to epic wins over the law - tell us how you've put one over authority. Right on, kids!

Suggestion from Sandettie Light Vessel Automatic

(, Thu 17 Jun 2010, 16:01)
Pages: Popular, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Getting it stuck to me by The Man as a result of my own incompetent attempt at petty criminality
Only this morning, I was wandering merrily down the streets of Edinburgh not doing an awful lot when I became increasingly conscious of the fact that my fringe was flopping about in an irritating manner, getting in my eyes and generally looking a bit shit.

'Time for a trim', methought. I bent my steps accordingly towards my usual hairdressers', only to find that the entire place was boarded up for a fortnight-long refit. Curses.

For those of you not in possession of a fringe, suck on this fact. Hairdressers will trim fringes for free, as many times as you like, providing you got the original cut at their salon. As mentioned above, though, said original salon wasn't open for business. And my fringe was still looking shit.

Disconsolate, I began to mooch homeward, but as I went (dodging the slack-jawed bumbling tourist hoardes who seem to emerge from the pavement at the slightest hint of clement weather) a plan began to form in my mind. Why not, I thought, just dodge into any old hairdressers', and try my luck at pretending to be a regular client? We probably all look the same to them, considering how many punters they must coiff in a day. So, sparing little thought as to the details and giving my lieing muscles a mental rub-down, I trotted into the first salon I came across, which happened to be a branch of a popular nationwide franchise.

All went well at first. I successfully negotiated the desk-gimp by distracting her with a compliment on her t-shirt. She told me to take a seat and wait for the next available hairdresser.

'Oh,' she said, almost having forgotten, 'when did you say you were last here?'

'About three months ago,' I lied smoothly. This was easy.

'And your name is...?' she enquired, leaning across to her computer keyboard.

Shit, I thought. Think quick. 'Er....Sarah,' I replied.

'And your surname?'

'Er....er....Williams. Sarah Williams.' I have no idea where that came from.

Fuck. This was not going well. She turned to the computer, a slight frown overcasting her orange-masked features.

'What's your address?'

Oh, balls. Why did I do this? I'm in way over my head. 'I've er, just moved actually,' I lied frantically.

'It's just we've got four Sarah Williams on our database. Were you the one at **** Street?'

'YES!' I cried desperately. 'But I moved, now, and....er...I've already forgotten my old postcode, so....'

This was dire. I very much wished I hadn't got myself into this fix. I cringed inwardly, waiting for the management to be called and massive embarrassment to ensue. Unexpectedly, though, she smiled. 'That's fine,' she said. 'Take a seat, it won't be long.'

Relieved, I dragged myself to the nearest chair and pretended to look at some magazines detailing the breakfasting habits of the various members of Girls Aloud. Sure enough, soon I was seen to by an anonymous scissor-bint and emerged ten minutes later, triumphantly pleased with myself at having scored a free (partial) haircut. Take that, overpriced chain of salons! I was just about to leave the building as quickly as possible when the desk-girl called me back.

'Just a moment,' she said. 'I'll need your new address to update our records, and as it's been over two months since your last visit, there'll be a £5 charge. Is that OK?'

Shit. This was really not worth it. The upshot was I had to stand there babbling some made-up address (it's harder than you think on the spot) and generalised postcode) while she ran my card through the machine. I had utterly failed to take into account that this might happen. On the front of said card in glorious silver letters, is, of course, my actual name. Neither 'Sarah' nor 'Williams' make up any part of it. Once the payment had gone through she took out the card and very conspicuously stared at the name upon it, then at the screen, then at me.

'I got married!' I squeaked in a strange, strangled accent. 'That's why it's not my name! I didn't have time to get it changed yet!' I carefully shifted my satchel so as to conceal my ring-free left hand.

'Right,' she said. That was all she said, but what a weight of disbelief, disapproval and pity was contained in that syllable. She knew, and I knew she knew. I was a fraud. I got out of there and hurried away down the street, very red in the face indeed.

So I suppose I didn't really get it stuck to me in any financially punative sense, but I do feel extremely silly. Oh well, plus ca change, frankly.

Length? About a centimetre shorter and much tidier than it was.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 15:49, 3 replies)
To all the people with the ‘Hark at me! I shoplift! Awesome!’ stories –
Do you really think you’re ‘sticking it to the man’? Do you really think that corporate will ever – EVER – take a wage cut owing to rampant shoplifting? Oh, Gosh, the fat man in the suit says, shoplifting is up. I’d better rethink that emerald toilet.

Of course bloody not. They’ll fire the single mum with the Saturday job. They’ll ditch the person who needs the money the most. You’re not acting as a modern day Robin Hood and I won’t pat your bloody back.

I don’t want to worry my pretty little head about the lawlessness, the morality or the general human indecency of theft –you’re fucking over people who need money more than you do. But go on, use your excuses about how Tesco has loss margins to cover your theft habit, maaaaaaaan.

You. You there. Shoplifters. You don’t know what it is like to be poor. You don’t know what it is like to be starving. You’re just stealing lipstick from Boots because you want to be pretty and you don’t want to have to pay for it.

When did this myth start that shoplifting is a good thing?
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 15:14, 22 replies)
Should Dave Gorman happen to be a B3tan
he should automatically win with:

(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 14:46, 6 replies)
Stairlift to heaven
Dr Fishfinger's story about Safestyle UK has reminded me of my Nan's victory over telesales.

She was plagued with endless phonecalls from peddlers and snake oil salesmen who like to prey on the elderly and vulnerable. I signed her up to the TPS and that cut a lot of them out, but some of these bastards just don't quit.

One company that was particularly virilent kept trying to sell her a stairlift. In the end she just gave up, talked to the guy about her hip replacement for half and hour and how it'd certainly help to have a stairlift to get up stairs.

It ended up with one of their goons coming round to give her the hard sell and quote for installing a spanking new stairlift... in her bungalow. They never called again.

We miss you Nan xx
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 14:41, 2 replies)
Confidence is everything
After my A-Levels someone had told me, in the tones that only late teenagers can, that actually McDonald's have it written into their mission statement that if you're not served in one minute they'll give you a free Big Mac but they don't shout about it because in the UK they're really slow and that's true that is.

So one day, queued with friends for a few minutes, and the large order we placed necessitated several minutes be taken to fulfil it.

When done, I said confidently "So - do we get our free Big Mac, as per your mission statement?"

"What?" asked the girl.

"The McDonald's mission statement states that if it takes longer than a minute to be served, we are entitled to a free Big Mac" I said, with the awful, authoritative arrogance of a teenager.

"Oh." said the girl, and promptly fetched us one.

Woo hoo. Take THAT, The Man!
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 14:35, 8 replies)
Duck tape fun
Being a reasonably young lad, I still live with mum, and my sister takes it upon herself to visit everyday at 7 in THE FEEKING MORNING.

Not good, considering her "whisper" is more like singing along to music with your earphones in, not to mention the two sprogs she drags around with her...

So after months of this waking torture, I get out of bed whilst she's working the old spitflaps, wander downstairs and get the duck (yes, duck) tape out of the cupboard and proceed to cut off a piece about 6 inches long.

This found its way to my sister's wide open mouth, as commanded by me to "keep the noise down a bit".
Took better part of an hour to get off, and she had a red mark around her mouth for 3 days!

Mum couldn't stop laughing either, and I slept like a baby 'til the early evening.
So that's how I stuck it to the (wo)man.

100% true!*
*Well, 99% actually, the duck tape was a barsteward to cut.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 14:35, 5 replies)
I went to Hell.
Well, Hell Pizza.

They didn't deliver my food after forty-five minutes, and my ladies' house is about 5 minutes drive from their shop.

Called them, got called back saying it'd be there soon. It wasn't, called again, got told the delivery dude was outside the door. He wasn't. Called again, got told he's definitely there this time and has a voucher for a free pizza as an apology.
My lady collected the pizza downstairs and there was no voucher.

I called back and they refunded a quite large pizza order (about forty dollars).

I was really happy about the free food... I'm not used to complaining. New Zealand folk aren't known for complaining.

And that was how I stuck it to Hell. Sorta. They refunded my money anyway.

(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 14:05, 7 replies)
Between proper jobs I was a data entry monkey.
I was offered a week's writing work while there by another company, so I took a week off sick to do so, thus getting sick pay and the cheque for the writing.

What made it all the more exciting was the office was about 200 yards away from where my main job was.

Honda Accord? MASSIVE DRUGS, more like.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 13:05, 1 reply)
A friend of mine...
*ahem* would quite often wheel crates of beer straight through Tesco checkouts. As they were always at the bottom of the trolley the lazy scrote half-arsedly sitting on his stool and scanning the rest of the shopping through would never notice, once did it with three whole crates on the way to a festival.

Pinched some toilet rolls that day too coming to think of it.

Have that!
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 12:56, 1 reply)
Someone stole my nick.
I DOS'd him.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 12:48, 1 reply)
The vending machine at my work used to have polos for 15p
then they rearranged everything and put Mars Bars in that slot and forgot to reprogram it. For a year we were getting 15p Mars Bars. I say "we"; I couldn't tell everyone about my discovery, as word would leak back to management, so I only told a small select group of trusted individuals. A few other people picked up on it eventually.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 12:00, Reply)
Strap in for a long haul and a Honda Accord: The Case Of The Lost Hat:
From: A Vagabond
Sent: XX January 20XX 15:01
To: A London Hotel
Cc: A Vagabond Hotmail
Subject: The Loss of My Hat

Dear Sir,

After a weekend of inconvenience, I have been advised to email you details of the situation I have been put in by your staff when I attended the XXXXXXXXXX staff Christmas Party at the your London Hotel on Friday XXth November 20XX.

Herewith details:

1. I took my black trilby hat and my black leather jacket to the cloakroom.
2. On attendance I suggested I needed two tickets – one for my hat, the other for my coat.
3. I was assured I only needed one ticket; that they would both be fine on this one ticket.
4. On returning to the cloakroom to collect my hat and coat, my hat could not be found.

I spoke to a kind and professional attendant called XXXX, who told me to call in the morning to see if my hat had been found, which I did at 9am in the morning of Saturday XXth November 20XX. I gave all necessary and requested details – including that I had spoken to XXXX. I said also that the hat could not just disappear; I can’t believe your staff would steal it, and that they would not be so incompetent as to give it to someone else after having assured me they would take care of it using only a single ticket. I also requested that once it was found that it be sent to me. I made it clear I had a train to catch at 12 o’clock, and would require the hat by then. I was told I would be called back in 10 minutes.

After half an hour I had not been called, so called back, and was told I would be called back in 10 minutes. 20 minutes later I was called back, to be told that the staff were still looking into the problem. I was told that I would be called back with any further information. I was called back at around 2pm to be told that there was still no further information, and that the staff were looking into the problem. By this point I was on my train, and rather put out by the whole situation; what with the UK going into winter and the weather turning slightly chilly, and knowing that there’s only going to be more to come. I was asked what the hat cost and where I got it, to which I responded that I bought the hat several years ago in Seville, Spain, and that it was a unique and personally valuable possession of mine. I was rather perturbed to then be asked if I had a receipt for the hat! Obviously I don’t, it being several years old.

I request that my hat be replaced by you by a good London milliner, which I understand to charge between £150 and £200 for similar. I feel this is a more reasonable request than for one of your staff to fly out to Seville in order to replace it.

I would like to conclude this correspondence by complimenting your staff on their professionalism and courtesy in dealing with what would appear to be a confusing situation.


A Vagabond

From: A London Hotel
Sent: XX January 20XX 13:39
To: A Vagabond
Subject: RE: The Loss Of My Hat

Dear A Vagabond,

Thank you again for your email.

As promised, I have now had the opportunity to fully investigate your comments. I very much regret that after a thorough search of the hotel your hat cannot be located.

Please accept my most sincere apologies for the problems that you experienced at the cloakroom on the evening of the XXth November. As you will be aware, there was a huge amount of guests wishing to retrieve coats etc from the cloakroom all at the same time and I can only assume that your hat has been collected by someone else in error. I am extremely sorry that I can offer no further explanation but I can assure you that the hotel has been thoroughly searched and needless to say, I have spoken at great length with the relevant managers in order to prevent any future reoccurrence.

I would be happy to authorise payment for a replacement hat of up to the value of £150.00. If you would like to purchase a new hat and send me the receipt and I will then arrange for you to be reimbursed by cheque.

Once again I am very sorry for the inconvenience caused.

If I can be of any further assistance then please do not hesitate to contact me.

Yours sincerely

The Manager

From: A Vagabond
Sent: XX January 20XX 09:31
To: A London Hotel
Cc: A Vagabond Hotmail
Subject: RE: The Loss of My Hat

Dear Sir,

Please find attached a copy of the receipt for my replacement hat.

Please confirm receipt of this email, and that you will be send a cheque within 14 days to the address below.


A Vagabond

Home Address:

My Howse

From: A London Hotel
Sent: XX January 20XX 10:17
To: A Vagabond
Subject: RE: The Loss Of My Hat

Dear A Vagabond,

I am writing to inform you that the cheque has been posted out to the address given below first class today.

Kind Regards,

The Manager


Post scriptum: My original titfer cost E30.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:47, 5 replies)
i am never ever ever ill as a rule
apart from in the last month when i have had 2 really evil cold/chest infections. last time round my boss and i kept arguing because he kept sending me home to rest. i don't do "resting" or "nothing" well at all, and i hated it. so i came in this morning admittedly looking like shit, coughed for about 15 mins nonstop, he promptly told me off and sent me home again.

but i'll show him, i will. i have sneaked the biggest carrier bag of work home with me and i'll do it in my pyjamas (well, massively over-sized t-shirt and fluffy totes, proper comfort clothes) right here on the sofa. take that, caring and considerate boss!

oh. wait.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:39, 4 replies)
My company screwed me out of a bonus so I make sure I drink a least 6 cups of tea a day just because they're paying for it
And I'm not the biggest fan of tea
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:33, 6 replies)
Usually when you hire a car
you have to fill it up with fuel before you hand it back, or they charge you about £10 a litre to refuel. So most folk do the sensible thing and fill it up. But with most cars, if you brim the tank, it'll be 50 miles or so before the fuel gauge needle moves off the 'full' mark. So by filling up a while before you hand the car back, you can get extra miles for free.

Unfortunately, this doesn't stick it to the man, as all it does it give the next hirer a slightly less full tank of petrol to begin his journey. But more recently, car rental companies have come up with a scheme to make them some cash. They give you a car with a full tank at the start of the hire, then bill you (at slightly below pump price) for the whole tankful in advance. You then hand back the car empty, which saves you the bother of filling it up. How convenient, eh? And of course nobody actually runs the tank to the last drop of fuel, so the rental company makes extra cash. Well, nobody except me...

I usually avoid such deals, but on one trip to the US a few years back, the agreement included a prepaid tank of fuel. As I was out there for a while and ended up doing about 3000 miles, I knew, from careful study of the owner's manual and the amounts I needed to refill the tank, just how much was left in it when the low fuel warnings started.

So I made it my mission to run the tank as low as possible on the day I handed it back. The fuel light had been on for ages, and the annoying 'bong' noise had sounded four times. I don't know if you've ever returned a rental car to San Francisco airport but the place is quite a way up a multi storey car park. The car gave a little cough just as I got it onto the top level, meaning that it was indeed running on fumes.

That showed them!

(I also had accidentally reversed that car into a ditch during my hire of it, but there was no visible damage so I neglected to mention this at the time of return)
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:24, 2 replies)
Slightly animated.
I used to work for a graphic design firm. That is until I was let go, because there wasn't enough work to go around in my line (Multimedia and 3D animation).
I went freelance for a while and Ronnie, the boss of the Design company used to throw me a few jobs here and there, but was always late paying for them, or would wait until I had a few payments due before calling me in to 'haggle'. I might get paid, if I, for example, took a 30% cut in what was due to me.
I didn't think it was fair as, 1: he had already haggled the price down before I started the individual jobs and 2: he always wanted more work done on each of the jobs for free. BUT I was skint so the need for cash always outweighed any desire I might have to get on my high horse about it.

One job (the last one), he told me he had a BIG client he wanted to impress. He handed me a hand-drawn doodle of a character and wanted it animated with text around it. I figured it would take the guts of a day to finish and quoted him £100. I took the sketch and built the footballer character in 3D and animated him nicely soloing a ball -
with the text of the logo forming around him. It was a nice small job, and I was proud of it.
Ronnie wasn't happy though. He went ballistic and told me I had changed the sketch too much. It was now 3D and whatnot. and wasn't a sketch and whatnot, etc.
I tried explaining that I was a 3D animator and that's how I worked, and I assumed he knew this, as we had worked on similar projects before. But no, it wasn't what we 'agreed' but graciously he would give me a second chance to make amends. However, he wanted some changes. The character was now supposed to receive the ball on his chest, allow it to drop to his feet, solo it, do some more tricks, and then spectacularly overhead kick it to the screen, where it would imprint the text of the logo. All in this 2D sketch style he liked. and all for the original £100. I asked for some of the money up front, 'No' was the reply 'you might fuck off with it'.

So..... what to do, what to do, what to do. I worked like a beaver for the next few days. Ronnie called on the Friday told me the client was flying into the country on Tuesday, and that my animation was the lynchpin for his whole proposal. I told him everything would be ready on time.
Monday rolled around - my phone was switched off until 9 that evening. 9.01 I get a call from an irate 'where the fuck is my animation' Ronnie, I reassured him, saying that I was doing some tidying up of his animation, with one of my friends who works for Disney.

The meeting was scheduled for 10 the following morning, I told him I'd be there at 9, or 8.30 if he preferred. He did prefer.
So, the following day at 10 to 10, I turned on the phone. 22 missed calls. Damn. Rang him, said I was sorry, but my alarm had not gone off, and I was on my way. I told him to get the computer ready, every second counts.
The client was there when I arrived, waiting in the studio. all the staff were standing around drinking coffee. Ronnie said ' yeeeaaahh, at last - here's the genius'. So I put the CD into the drive and waited for the animation to load. 'Hit play when you're ready Ronnie',I joked 'that's the one with the triangle'.
Cue laughs all round. Ronnie got up spoke for a couple of minutes about the proposal and how it tied all the services and merchandise into a tight package and eventually hit play.
DISASTER! it was the wrong animation, the one that was initially rejected. Ronnie glared, I apologised, and loaded up the new one. He hit play again. This time the little character was on screen, soloing the ball when another, slightly bigger character with Ronnie's face came on screen and proceeded to buttfuck the footballer, all the while singing Ronnie is a bollix, to the tune of Match of the day.

I never did get the £100.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:23, 5 replies)
I sometimes bruise peaches in Tesco

Take that, Establishment!
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 11:20, 4 replies)
Does this count?
I really stuck it to the Son of Man.
Pontius Pilate.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 10:26, 1 reply)
The old days
My Grandfather was a flying ace in WWII. He flew Hurricanes in the Battle of Britain and also in the South Pacific, nearly being caught by the Japanese in Singapore. Although he made ace and was Squadron Leader of 3 different sqns, at the end of the war he was "promoted" to a desk job being OIC Flying Training at RAFC Cranwell.

At the end of 1948, Grandad was approached by Hawker, the company who made Hurricanes. At this stage they had outsourced a lot of operations to Canada, as the RCAF (Canadian Airforce, buddy) had bought around 650 of them, and they wanted him to go over, on a much increased salary, to train the trainers. So off he, his wife, and his 6 year old daughter (or Mum, as I now call her) toddled.

On arrival in Toronto, Grandad was quickly introduced to his new role. Unfornately, Uncle Sam's big blue flying machine had seen the shiny new, manouverable, quick beasties that Hawker were producing and wanted a piece of the action. So Hawker, as any orgainsation would do, put their best man on the job. Grandad.

Grandad, due to the rules of how pilot training was conducted, now held the ceremonial rank of Wing Commander in the RCAF. USAF, however, sent over a Major to oversee test flights. Part of this deal was that the Major had a personal aircraft for his own private test flights.

Unfortunately, this Major was a complete and utter bellend. He took every opportunity to criticise the Hurricane's performance, saying how the Mustang was "a far superior airframe in every respect." He treated my Grandad with not one modicum of respect, disregarding his combat service (the Major had none) and of course his superior rank. He also went on at various times about "how Uncle Sam saved you limey bastards" and so on. At length. Turns out he was the son of some congressman, so he got the job on the never-never.

One of his particular irritating behaviour traits was insisting that his aircraft was faulty (rather thann him being a shite pilot). This regularly resulted in my Grandad and his team of excellent Canadian mechanics taking the aircraft out of service and giving it a full overhaul about once every week, when it should have happened once every quarter. This meant that they were falling behind with the other USAF aircraft, as well as some of the RCAF ones.

One day, the Major came over to my Grandad after a flight.
"Did everything go OK?" Grandad asked
"Did it hell!" the Major replied. "Your aircraft is a piece of shit."
"What seems to be the problem today?"
"It's just not flying right. The P57, you take to the sky, you feel like you are flying the airplane. This one feels like you're gonna crash. Sort it out by tomorrow morning"
And off he strolled to the RCAF Officers' Mess, where he was also about as welcome as a case of the clap.

Grandad hatched a little plan. That night he called all his mechanics out to the hangar to (and I quote) "teach that Septic bastard a lesson in manners."

The next morning, Grandad was in his best flying suit next to his mechanics standing on the apron as the Major strolled outside. As the increasing look of bewilderment, shock and anger passed his face, Grandad smiled a shit-eating grin, snapped off a salute and said:

"As you can see, Major, we have completely taken your aircraft apart and not found any fault with it at all. Now, would you like my mechanics to put it back together again?"

Yes, indeed, lying on the apron (on a tarpaulin, of course) was a Hawker Hurricane IX reduced down to its constituent components. Including 5 jerry cans of engine oil, coolant etc that had been siphoned off. The Major just stood there in open-mouthed shock before nodding his head once.

My Grandad led him to one side "Now Major, one other matter, you may want to ensure for smooth running of the aircraft, that you don't spray any of the controls with bodily fluids again. That isn't how you make new Hurricanes, I'm afraid. Oh, and I think you can call me Sir now."

(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 10:09, 2 replies)
A bit later than planned
FAO Amorous Badger (www.b3ta.com/questions/theman/post760838)

So anyway, my boss was a right cunt. Always taking liberties and I was getting no praise. He once asked me to do a report on which customers had a website or not and the feasibility of flogging them one. So I basically went through the yellow pages, finding all the entries that included a url in the ad. After all of these were put into a spreadsheet, I did a bit of SWOT analysis (strategic business planning thing) and presented him with and A-grade white-paper.

Later that day, I overheard him discussing it with his manager about all the work he'd put into it. Bastard had taken all the credit.

Anyway, that gives you a rough idea of the cuntery.

One day he asked me if I'd sort out his home computer.
"What's wrong with it and when do you want it doing? I'll do it on my dinner hour if you bring it in but you let me leave 90 mins early" I said.
"It's not printing properly and it takes ages to start up. I can't bring it in because I can't let you leave early. You can do it on Saturday instead" he replied.
"Ok, but it'll cost you." foolishly forgetting to name my price. It sounded like his cartridge has run out or just needs the drivers reinstalling and thus I would only need to spend 30 mins in the invidious cunt's company.

So on the Saturday I went round there, and sure enough the printer was out of ink. I set about downloading stuff. I also ran an Windows Update, which showed that he was two service packs behind on Office 2003.

"Can you go get a printer cartridge or two?" I asked him. I wrote the name down on a scrap of paper. He agreed and went out to PC World.
A couple of minutes after he went out, his wife brought me a coffee. She had 10 years on me, but had certainly aged well. She sat beside me.
"Where's he gone?" she asked
"Just gone to shop to fetch an ink cartridge"
"Will he be gone long?" she asked and began stroking my leg.
I was surprised at first, but then I thought 'Fuck him, he's a twat' and took the bait and let her slide her hand higher.

I was beginning to get a semi and she rubbed it. I then had an idea and I called him on his mobile and sent him on a wild goosechase; giving him a shopping list of various parts from different shops. He'd be gone an hour at least.

She unzipped my trousers and took out of my cock, lent over and took it into her mouth. I couldn't believe my luck.

She gave me a blow job in the whilst installing Office*. After ten minutes of her going at it like a dog eating a hot chip, I then bent her over the desk and shagged her so hard she was going to be walking like John Wayne for a week.

I pulled out and dumped my filthy porridge all over her tits and she licked the dribbles from the end of my still twitching cock.

She got up and left and I heard her upstairs getting a shower just as he returned with the shopping list.

I finished sorting his computer out, including running various security utilities to remove the porn dialers he had installed. He gave me a tenner for my troubles the tight cunt, but I didn't care. I was satisfied and I left with a big smile on my face.

How is this relevant to the question I hear you ask. That very same day, I'd been down the post office and bought a new tax disc. However, I didn't change it until about a week later on the 3rd of the month.

Ha! Take that DVLA, That'll teach you for robbing £120 off me.

* potentially a fledgeling meme
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 9:37, 3 replies)
I nick disposable rubber gloves from work and take em home so I can blow em up like balloons cos the dog loves chasing em round the house.

I'm such a rebel.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 9:17, Reply)
So the other day
I got a letter and realized that the stamp on it wasn't marked by the Post Office...so I freaked out, peeled it off and used it on ANOTHER LETTER.

That fucking told them.
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 7:33, 3 replies)
Quite a few years ago (mid-1980s) a friend of my grandfather had a dispute with the Inland Revenue over his tax return. Letters were exchanged with increasing ire on both sides until the elderly gentleman snapped and started writing two or three letters a day to the Revenue. They replied, demanding he stop writing to them so often. He then took it to the next level and started putting the stamps on the envelopes in odd places (halfway down the back, upside down at the bottom below the address). As the story was told to me, this meant that the letters had to be hand processed by the Royal Mail as the sorting machine couldn't read the stamp. So the Royal Mail attach irate notes to the letters asking the recipient to tell the person writing to them to put the stamp in the right place. Sure enough, the next letter my grandfathers friend gets has a PS asking him to ensure that he stamps the envelope correctly.

My grandfathers friend considered this request, mulling it over in the British Legion, then promptly sat down and wrote five letters to the Revenue with the stamps all over the place. Again they write back to him. This goes on for some time. Eventually they cave in, accept they made a mistake, refund his money, and plead with him to correctly address and stamp any letters to them.

This OAP anarchist had one last letter to send. He got a large envelope, put a stamp smack bang in the middle, wrote the address in a spiral around it, and enclosed a single sheet of paper that said:

"Dear Sir,

Hey diddle diddle
The Stamp is in the middle

yours sincerely,

Annoyed OAP"
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 1:26, 4 replies)
The security "man"
Phone rang the other day and for once I answered it, the resulting interaction went like this.....

Bloke: "Hello I'm from Direct Response security, we're looking for demo homes in your area, you've been selected.....blah...blah....drone.......bollocks......blah...drone."
Me: "Weren't you featured on Watchdog Rogue Traders last week?"
Bloke:"Well not us as such, but one of our salesmen"
Me:"Still not the best advert for your company though is it....bye"
(, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 0:49, Reply)
my brother was a bit of a drug-peddling scallywag back in the day
The local police had been after him for some time. Then one day they raided our house and were delighted to find his modest cannabis plantation and a big pile of unexplained cash in his possession which they confiscated.

They triumphantly took him to court, but because the plants were growing in the spare room they couldn't prove who was actually growing them, so he got off scot-free on a technicality.

The cops were pretty pissed off about that and refused to return my brother's ill-gotten gains. They were even more pissed off when we subsequently took them to court and got all his money back plus legal expenses.

(Fans of justice and karma will be pleased to know that he did eventually spend a little while at her majesty's pleasure for something unrelated)
(, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 23:48, 4 replies)
am always the tool who points out to the bar/shop/restaurant that they have undercharged. much to my friends' collective disgust. i once took 500quid back to the bank because the cashier had given me too much cash. i blame my mother for the utter humiliation she put me through when i stole a lipstick aged about 7 (and it was the manky tester one, i was never going to be a master criminal).

this qotw is making me realise i am even less cool and rebellious than i thought. which was pretty warm and law-abiding in the first place. great, thanks for that.
(, Sun 20 Jun 2010, 23:32, 8 replies)

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