Repost (so don't bother clicking "I like this"), but it did well last time so enjoy...
I should have been fired (or at least disciplined).

5 years ago I had a boring admin job whose only redeeming feature was that I worked on a team with 3 lovely young ladies. Abbie sat to my left; she was 21, slim, blond, attractive but a total space cadet and jittery with it. Very jittery, if somebody dropped a file loudly she would flinch noticeably.

Whenever I made the coffee she would always remind me that she only took half a teaspoonful of coffee, what she called “granny coffee” as it was so weak. This one time I accidentally used a whole spoonful so I put more milk in to hide the stronger colour and taste. Abbie didn’t notice.

Now I’m not a bad person, and I liked Abbie, but the mischief switch in my head went and the challenge was on to see how strong I could make her coffee before she noticed. Obviously I had to start low and increase the dosage each time.

A few days later a manager named John caught me in the kitchen counting out 4 spoonfuls of coffee into Abbie’s cup. “What are you doing?” he asked. I didn’t know he was stood behind me so I was a bit flustered and just fessed up, “I’m seeing how much I can drug Abbie with coffee, you see…if you use more milk it masks the colour and taste…” I trailed off nervously.

The manager took a step closer, looked at the cup, looked at me again and said without changing facial expression, “Well put some more in then”. Well thank fuck for the Y Chromosome! If it had been a female manager I would have been toast.

It had to stop a few days later, I was up to 5 spoonfuls which to put in context is a 1000% increase in dosage. Abbie was noticeably twitchier. I got a phone call that was for her, I turned to my left and said that I was putting a call through which she duly acknowledged, when she picked up I said in the killer from ‘Scream’ voice “HELLO ABBIE, DO YOU LIKE SCARY MOVIES!?”….

She screamed. Loudly. Then cried. A lot.

The female power-dressing megalomaniac office manger fixed me with a cold stare. Nothing was said but the experiment was over. I was super nice to Abbie after that and reduced her coffee intake back to normal “Granny” strength. I’m sure drugging colleagues with coffee is a sackable offence, it should be.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 15:32, Reply)

I work from home for myself
So the freedom to do amazingly in-appropriate things is too far too tempting.

Apart from spending the entire working day naked, or speaking to customers whilst having a shit, i excelled this week by opening up all the mail and trying each envelope on as a hat one by one. It took half an hour and it was completely worth it.

(and if you're stuck for a balaclava, A4 brown envelopes with the see-through window is perfect)
( MrGomez and David Bellamy's big pubey beard, Tue 14 Aug 2007, 23:28, Reply)

sticking shit to mannikins then putting them in windows :D

( m-a-t-t -- formerly mini hasn't been on here for EVER!, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 23:08, Reply)

True story
When I was working at the photocopy shop, I returned from a prolonged lunch to discover a couple of circular cheeses on my desk. They were about the size of Babybels, but were in green and yellow packaging. I ate both of them double quick. About an hour later my boss asked me where the cheeses were.

ME: I ate them.
HIM: What!? They were samples. You were supposed to lasercopy them for a customer.
ME: Nobody told me that. So I ate them. I'll just buy some more.
HIM: Oh Jesus! They were the only two samples in the country! The Sales Manager was just in here. They brought the samples from a conference in Holland.
ME: Well, if you leave food on my desk, I'm going to eat it.
HIM: What you're going to do is call the man and tell him you've eaten the only samples in the country.

PICKS UP PHONE AND DIALS

ME: Yes, hello. It's KallKrap Printing. I've just eaten your cheese samples... well, nobody told me... Well, they were very tasty... no, I'm not laughing. Honestly. Yes I do realise that this is a serious matter. I've eaten the only samples in the country... Wait a minute... I can't....stop... myself... Bwaaahahahahaha... hahahahahahahahaha... hahahahahahaha...hahahahahahahaha... hahahahahahahah

BOSS TAKES PHONE FROM ME

HIM: [to sales manger} Yes, I'll see that he's disciplined. It's certainly not a laughing matter. And we'll try to reconstruct the packaging from the bin and copy it.
ME: Hahahahahahahahahahahahhahah

In the end, we copied the packaging and I kept my job.
(frankspencer, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 13:03, Reply)

Races! Police Cells! Office Humiliation!
By sheer coincidence we had our office day out last week. Here's what happened... I should be fired, and there are so many more stories...

How to impress your colleagues

I have worked at the same company for five years. This years have been generally successful, ambitious and moderately sensible. However they have been punctuated with some notable disasters. From the Christmas party when I ended up 60 miles from home, to the races of two years back when Natalie and I caused mayhem and she was threatening to force sex on Andy, to the incident with Rob in the car park which led to speed humps being installed, to the incident with Rob, the earpiece and the maggots. I have been told that for all my qualities I remain the person most likely to generate a lawsuit by accident. This is not something I'm proud of, and I promised myself I would change.

"This year's horse races will be different" I said to Nat, meaning I'd have a few pints, get a bit merry and go home and do some household chores. Naturally, bearing in mind the title of this journal, you've probably anticipated that this isn't what happened.

Natalie, being a knob, was pissed within the first five minutes of getting to the track. The afternoon was spent in the company of lots of people going "Aah" and "Ooh" as the races were run, the crack of opening cans, the sound of Oli and I skinning up and cries of "Fuck!" "Cunt!" "You know, don't you!" and the World's Loudest Cackle were heard coming from the balcony of our hospitality suite. These sounds were audible from the trackside bookies sites' some distance away. "Lo!" I thought smugly. "Surely that isn't the fair Nat! Not at the races? Again? While I'm sober?" I may even have laughed out loud.

It was Nat. And I was about to learn that smugness heralds embarrasment. Embarrasment, Inconvenience and a bit more embarrasment.

The embarrasment began as we were leaving the course. That hideous gravity that compels us together on company days out, pissed, began to come into affect. Nat's volume grew, my irrelevance became worse, and our MD (a patient and forgiving man, fortunately), knowing what was coming, kept us apart as we reached the coach, ensuring a peaceful journey home and nothing dreadful to worry about the next day.

His plans were thwarted. Nat bashed a colleague, a lot and called everyone a bunch of cunts (all affectionately meant). I had a falling out with my mate Andy. He affectionately called me a fat cunt. I suggested that the hobbit should fuck off back to The Shire and slapped him on the head and so he punched me.

There was unseemly grappling for a moment, a colleague began doing a racecourse commentary, we agreed to fight later and then we forgot. Then I remembered as we diembarked the coach and am told I had him in a headlock. We again forgot it and made friends again. Now it's amusing. Then it was a sensation.

I left the pub and met a friend to do something else, briefly, before returning. Natalie and I were thrust together once again, a brief and obscene conversation followed, and then, after explaining we wouldn't change one another for the world despite our occasionally frosty working relationship, and exclamations of "If you didn't exist I would have had to invent you!" we decided to leave the pub, enjoy some personal time, and get smashed.

We stumbled out of the door clinging on to one another for both balance and support and made our way to my local. I was removed from this pub 3 days prior to this as my mate couldn't stand (thanks Steve!). I hoped Natalie would be better behaved. Foolish really, aren't I.

We went outside, smoked, argued, and decided on Sambuca. Natalie, who is a lady with a loud voice, and louder cackle, somehow pissed off the landlord and I was asked to escort her out. So I did. So we went to another pub. I fell over. Nat was waving her arms and howling for the moon. They wouldn't serve us. We went to a shop to buy vodka. We did, but were once again ejected.

I called a cab. Nat needed a wee. Found a hidden doorway and let go. Class act! Then she was confused as to why her wee looked so dark. Convinced she needed a doctor, a bit of worry crept into her voice and was only dispelled when I pointed out she was on tarmac, it was 10.30 at night and demonstrated that mine looked the same.

We then thought we'd like to stay out longer so we cancelled the taxi and stumbled to another pub, swigging from the bottle. This was silly. We had planned to go to mine with more booze, get some sleep, cope with the inevitable innuendo the next day at work and not feel too hungover. Yeah. As if it was likely.

The next, and final, pub started well. In between gossip and mutual assurances of our deep yet platonic affection for each other, punctuated by creative swearing, we began to get more pissed. And louder. Then it happened. A man bumped into Nat, spilt her drink and suggested she should get the fuck out of his way. Nat asked him to be more polite ("What the fuck are you doing, cunt?"). He called her a whore, or something a little worse. I objected, to calm things down, but my hearty greeting was misinterpreted, I was assumed to be Nat's champion and defender (correctly, as I'm the only person allowed to cast doubt on her sexual habits, parentage, and history) and I'm sad to say he clocked me one. I nutted him, Natalie joined in with relish, and there was a brawl that culminated in 7 or 8 people getting nicked. Us amongst them.

This was bad, but got worse. I had something naughty with me, got some privacy in the bog with an officer on the door and boshed the lot, swallowing the container. This led to my calling my accompanying officers PC Munchkin and PC Cheesy Feet.

Nat and I were separated, desolate, and asked what had happened. Neither of us were really sure, and suggested we had been unjustly set upon. They believed us as we were evidently that daft looking at the time. We kept in overnight, Nat was released at 7 and I was kept until 6pm. PC Cheesy Feet was evidently a vindictive man.

The crowning glory of the night were the phone calls to our already disgusted sales director, half an hour apart, saying "We got nicked! Might be late in." This was bad. The Ballad of Disasterprone & Nat 2007 (Summer) is ended, other than the incessant Bonnie and Clyde jokes, the Free The Office Two posters, the photoshopped prison images and other piss taking.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 9 Aug 2007, 15:01, Reply)

My old job
How we never got the sack from the supermarket where I used to work is a complete mystery, honestly.

The warehouse was on two split levels - the food bit at the bottom, and the non food bit at the top. Used to work on the non-food bit, meaning there were always footballs/cricket bats/remote controlled cars/frisbees/TVs/scooters to be mucking about on. Once, during a massive game of football, someone kicked the ball over the wall thing that stopped you falling off the edge into the underneath food area (by the way, health and safety would have an absolute FIELD DAY in this place). No worries, we thought, happened pretty often and the forklift drivers normally booted it back up for us. Not today.

Just so happened that there was a big managers' meeting thing going on underneath us (in a warehouse?! yeah - i know!) and the ball had flown over the edge, and bounced down right next to these top-bods, interrupting their brown nosing, and scaring the absolute crap out of them.

What did we do? We used the years of skiving and playing manhunt in the enormous warehouse to our advantage when the massive (and i mean MASSIVE) juggernaut of a store manager comes HURTLING up the stairs, looking for culprits. We had all hidden in the stock - people were under the shelves, on top of the racking, inside TV boxes - it was a total JOKE the places we picked, how we werent found is beyond me. Plus, you always get that feeling when you know you CAN'T laugh or you'll be in deep shit. Makes you want to laugh more and more and more. You all know the one!

The only guy left not hiding (and wasnt even playing football) was the retarded guy whose job it was was to put out batteries, and he just said it "fell off the racks at the top" rather than dob us in. Looking back he maybe wasn't so retarded.

Still laugh about this now. Good times.

Edit: This is probably my longest QOTW post, so in all sincerity, apologies for length!!
( Goon, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 15:25, Reply)

Quick one...
There were lots of motivational signs around a place that I used to work at in Leeds.

One of them was, "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem".

I changed the last part to say, "...you're part of the precipitate".

It made me laugh.
( Fr_Jerry_McGwier looked over both shoulders at, Sun 12 Aug 2007, 8:14, Reply)

Why sir, I do believe you're a rotten bastard


My first ever employment disaster.

When I'd just left school, back in the early 1980's, I'd my heart set on a career as an unemployable dope fiend.


Unfortunately, my mother had other ideas and, unbeknownst to me, sent off an application to catering college. I was furious and determined to fail the entrance exam. I sat the exam, which consisted of multiple choice answers to questions about bar tending. For every question, Every. Single. Question mark you, I chose the 'Nuclear Option'.

To wit.

(Q) A customer claims you've short-changed him, what do you do?

(A) Challenge him to a fist fight


(Q) A customer claims their meal is inedible, what do you do?

(A) Call the police

Etc.

Off home I went, happy in the knowledge that young Fanta could safely resume his lethargic ways. How wrong I was. Out of thousands, thousands I tell you, of applicants I was in the final shortlist of 250. Me, with the "Beat up toddlers" answers, I ask you.

So, I got called for an interview in a city centre hotel. I was sent off with a suit but, without my parents knowing, got changed in a mate's bedsit and turned up for the interview in jeans and a combat jacket. I was first in the queue so in I went.

There was a MILF sitting behind the desk who looked daggers at me. She berated me for not having dressed for the occasion so we were off to a flying start. I did my best sullen insolence act ever and she got angrier by the minute. Eventually she stopped the interview and, in a school-marm fashion, asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my life. "Why live on the dole off of your taxes of course" was my reply. This was it, I'd really done it now. She shoved the desk towards me screaming at the top of her lungs to get out. I got up and opened the door turned with a smirk and said "You have a nice day now, as for me, I'm off to the pub" She let out another screech and flung her notepad at me which sailed over my head and bounced off the wall opposite. It was while watching it slide to the floor that I realised that the corridor was crowded with around a dozen or so other applicants waiting their turn. I smiled at them and said "You'll be grand, she's in great form."

Needless to say, I wasn't offered a place but I did get a very nice letter informing me of this.
(Fanta Menace Is tall enough to see over the fence, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 17:09, Reply)

In The Beginning.......
Right then, in agreement with some earlier posts, I won’t go on about my current job because people know who I am now…but I’ll say this one, as it happened yonks ago.

My first proper job was for a free weekly newspaper that depended on advertising revenue. I had a meteoric rise through the ranks (because only about 15 people worked there) from office junior to ‘Distribution Manager’ (sounds grand doesn’t it?).

What it meant was that I had to hire / fire and generally pander to all the little scrote-bucket delivery boys & girls and give ‘em a kicking when I found a pile of newspapers chucked in a hedge somewhere by some lazy little fuckflange. I always kind of sympathised because they were being paid about 1.5p per newspaper delivered. Poor little arse-spanners.

But then there were the ‘trouble-shooters’. These brave souls would deliver where nobody else would go and do anything to get the rag to the unsuspecting public. For their trouble they were spunked a whopping 3.5p per paper (I’ll leave it a second for you all to get up from the floor) and a few pence per mile. These people delivered thousands of papers…and ended up getting paid quite a bit.

My job was actually alright; but then my boss (and owner of the newspaper, whom I respected) was run out of business in a take-over by some twat-scratchers. I pretty much lost my 'motivation' for the company from that point on.

One time (not at bandcamp) I accidentally ordered 10000 more copies than was required. My new boss fired an egg roll out of his arse, and ordered me to get additional delivery gits: troubleshooters, boys, girls, dogs, cats, anything as long as the papers were delivered. Within three days. His theory was that he could then proudly announce an increase in the circulation, get additional advertising revenue and everybody would be happy. What a positive-thinking turdsqueak.

Thus my plan was born.

I invented some ‘troubleshooters’ (whose addresses just so happened to be mate’s houses) and arranged for the 10000 papers to be split up and dropped off at their shagpads. After the drops, I went round, collected them all, took them to the recycling place and collected payment. I also made sure that each ‘troubleshooter’ was paid at top rate and paid a petrol allowance, which I then promptly collected.

Everyone was happy – especially me. So I continued and on top of my £7K salary, pocketed approx 21K in a year which I spent on hard-up uni-friends, band equipment and taking girls out for expensive meals and the like.

It was known in my social circle as simply ‘The Result’

But here’s the best part – due to the ‘increase in circulation’, my job then became going out in fancy company cars ‘house-checking’ that the papers were being delivered! – or in other words, going to the pub and getting back at 5pm saying, “Yup, those trouble-shooters are doing a tip top job (hic)”

I wasn’t sacked, but I’m sure you all agree, I fucking well should have been.

Unsurprisingly, (pun warning) the paper folded. Funny that. I was made redundant and got a crappy pay-off but couldn’t really complain. I was one of the last to go!

I did feel a bit bad and responsible about the whole thing until I found out that every rumpscuttle in the place had scams going… like the girl I was kind of seeing at the time making sure that she won every single competition, and the sales girls who gave free ads in a ‘barter system’.

I hope this doesn’t lead to any ‘copycat’ scams being born. This stuff is wrong, kids (but funny if you don’t get caught)

Apologies for length..but hey, you should be used to it by now.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 10 Aug 2007, 13:24, Reply)

Nearly fired from a job I never had...
When I was living at University and had no money, I admit to having bought some of my clothes from charity shops: one was a white shirt with vertical thin red stripes on it.

Walk into WHSmiths on a bored Saturday, I'm approached by an old lady who asks me where she could find a certain author: I guess with my cheapo recycled charity shop shirt, I looked like I might work there, especially through her bottle-bottom glasses.

I suggested where the book should be but told her I wasn't actually staff so didn't know for certain - and so she stormed off to complain to a manager about my 'unhelpful' attitude: she was expecting me to go find the book for her.

The manager appeared to take her complaint seriously, until I waved and smiled and he realized that I wasn't actually a member of his staff: with her still complaining about my 'service', I walked out of the shop saying in a way she could overhear "thats it, I've had enough of helping the bloody blue-rinse brigade: I quit!"
(paulplex erm, hi..., Wed 15 Aug 2007, 13:21, Reply)

I work for Bristol City Council making bus timetables
If you look very carefully at certain timetables, you'll notice some of road and place names in Bristol have been slightly altered. So Cumberland Road is Cucumberland Road, the Maritime Museum is the Marmite Museum, and you can probably guess how I misspelt Belland Drive. I've also been inserting tiny pics of various retro cartoon characters in the Bristol City Council logo. So far, so predictable.

BUT also located in my office is the concessionary cards department, where elderly and disabled people apply for free bus passes. There's a pair of young girls who work there, and I often hear them laughing at the mad-looking passport photos the elderly send in. So in order to improve the girls' day considerably, and for my own amusement, I've decided to send in this fake application:



Yes, it's the bad guy from the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I'm so whacky me!
( krang, Sat 11 Aug 2007, 22:18, Reply)

Pearoast for QOTW.

(Generator cannot be named for legal reasons, Fri 10 Aug 2007, 0:02, Reply)

willeniums patented guide to shirking
throughout the work day:

1. arrival; don't arrive late! arrive on time but unprepared. for example arrive at 9 but spend the first 10 mins dressing/brushing teeth/sorting trough papers or tools you need to do your job. this is wasting the company's time but makes you look better than the johnny come lately.

2. tea up! no one can work without a cup of tea that's why you should make the entire workplace a cup of tea. having a tea break by your self is the actions of a shirker making everyone a morning cuppa delays work even further plus endears yourself to your boss and workmates at the same time. making a good cup of tea will stop any p45 in its tracks while at the same time prevent your workmates grassing you up when you get caught wanking over scat mpegs when your supposed to be in a meeting.

3. the two objects trick. take two objects (A and B) at opposite ends of your workplace. carrying object A stride purposely towards object B looking so busy (angry as hell) that no one will bother you. when you arrive swap the objects and repeat.

4. smoke breaks! pack in the fags and get on the rollies. not only will you save a shit load of money you shirk more; roll it sloooooooooowly then wander off to the furthest away open space before lighting it.


5. lunch time. if done properly steps one to four should have wasted the entire morning. Never bring your own lunch always go off site and make up an allergy. "sorry I took two hours boss the only place that does gluten free pizza was packed"


6.surviving the afternoon. after lunch your co workers may attempt to shirk too. these ametures may be tempted to do obvious things like hide in the toilets and stationary cupboard. your boss will be on alert for these activity's so be on high alert.

7. act like your working by actually working....on other things. do your taxes/pay your bills/read your mail/ cook for the evening . these all are all made far more fun by doing them on company time by having the added bonus of freeing up valuable weekend time.

8.hide, while your boss chews out the gormless fool who hid in the copy room you will have befriended people from other departments allowing you to hang out in places your boss will never go.

9.leave early. five minutes early will look bad, so leave an hour early. leave your workstation in a mess and tell people your going to get some object that you need to do your job. Sneak out the back to freedom.

general tips.
don't risk getting caught surfing the net on the company computer bring a laptop in and use its wireless connection whilst sttting in a toilet cubicle.

always use a toilet on another floor if possible to maximise time away from work.

b3ta.com

only charge your phone/game boy/pda from work plug sockets

steal like its going out of fashion!

whine whenever someone asks you to do something they wont ask again
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 19:24, Reply)

Milky cocks
I work for a large, pseudo-Italian coffee shop chain that shall remain nameless (it might rhyme with "Foster"...). I do very little work even at the best of times, and find that much of the work I do actually do is criticized anyway for not meeting whichever senseless new rule they've bought in that week. For example, they have banned 'latte art' on their coffees. Latte art basically entails drawing shapes on top of the drinks using the frothed milk, common ones being hearts, apples and even ferns. However, in my own special way, I have been doing my best to fight against this bureaucratic rule-mongering and tarnish the image they work so maintain. How you ask? By drawing big milky cocks on top of people's drinks of course! I then sprinkle on a touch of chocolate powder to add 'pubes' and then you have the perfect 'cockaccino'. Somehow, I haven't been caught yet. Perhaps because most people are too polite to complain? Or maybe people just see the funny side of it?
(HNGTHDJ, Tue 14 Aug 2007, 17:57, Reply)

I'm a lifeguard
I can't swim.
(silkysean pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, Fri 10 Aug 2007, 12:37, Reply)

my first ever claim
before i was a real lawyer (and still had a life) was against the dry cleaners opposite the estate agency where my friend and i worked.

one day my boss asked me to go and fetch his brand new trousers from the dry cleaners. he had all his clothes hand made on savile row (ha, he stopped doing that when the last lot of shirts came in at #2,500. apparently it is very not the done thing to ask the price beforehand. he shopped at m & s after that) and had broken the zip on his new dinner suit.

we had lost the ticket, and i was in the cleaners for ages. eventually they conceded they couldn't find it. many cross letters later and i sued them for my boss. on the day before the hearing they gave in and paid the lot.

only after the cheque had cleared did my colleague and friend say to me:

her: er, rswipe. you know those trousers?

me: yup. careless bastards! anyway, the boss is buying me lunch today as a thanks.

her: yeah. see, i. um. kind of my fault.

me: what. did. you. do?

her: i forgot that he told me to take them to the dry cleaners. i took them... to the charity shop... and when i went back, they'd sold.

oops!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 20:52, Reply)

How Hannibal got started?
I took a year out between school and Uni, spent it living in Montreal where I worked in a cafe. I was utterly incompetent, as the following incidents clearly demonstrate:

- I ignored the clear advice NOT to leave the long-handled spoon standing up in the milk beaker (for making cappuccino), a choice which led directly to my knocking said beaker over and spraying my arm with boiling milk
- I dropped a bowl into the soup tureen, then tried to retrieve it by putting my hand into the boiling hot soup
- I electrocuted myself on a fridge door while trying to clean it
- I managed to tear my thumbnail off while juicing oranges

But my crowning glory was the time I was asked to make up a salad...

Lettuce: check.
Red cabbage: check.
Radish: check.
Carrots: "Hmm..." thinks me, "that lot'll take bloody ages to slice." I pondered for a moment and then my eyes fell upon the rotary meat slicer. You'll have seen these at the butcher: big bastard metal things with a circular blade, you put your ham joint in the chute, shove it back and forwards and presto! nice neatly-sliced wafers of hammy goodness come out the bottom.

"Well," my thinking goes, "it works for ham, why not carrots?" So I load up a handful of carrots, and get ready for some rapid slicing action. But wait, I can't use the metal safety guard because the carrots just wobble around...

Can you see where this is going yet?

"No problem, I'll just steady them with my hand."

It works a treat! Chop...chop...chop...chop chop chop chopchopchopchopchopchopchopARGHFUCKINGFUCKITY

Gone are the tops of all the knuckles on one hand. Surprisingly little blood, really, given the circumstances -- little enough that I'm able to mop up the worst of it, cover my fingers in plasters and carry on without anyone noticing.

Now OK, that's pretty stupid and all. But the bit that should have got me fired was what happened next...or rather didn't.

Looking through the big tub of salad, not a trace could I find of my recently-sliced skin. It must've been in there somewhere, but I was buggered if I could find it. I was also buggered if I was going to throw the whole lot in the bin and start again.

So somewhere in Montreal is someone who has, literally, eaten my flesh. And since they were eating salad, it's quite likely they were vegetarian.

Har har!
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 16:14, Reply)

Cash
My company is essentially a payroll bureau. We pay about 80,000 people every week. It's all run from a mainframe. I'm the last, and only person who knows how it works. Intimately.

I can do anything I want on it. For example, I can pay some contractors who mysteriously only ever work 1 week in 20. They do a lot of hours that week and get a lot of overtime. We pay them about £89 an hour. We charge the very very big clients about £119 an hour. I can pay the contractors with cheques - unforunately they move around a lot, so they have a few PO Boxes in really small Post Offices where there is no cctv.

The big clients query these contractor payments occasionally, but they have thousands of queries all the time, they get misplaced. After a while, they end up in a big pot with other missing transactions.

Sometimes, some of my brother's, lets say, less well to do friends, have bank accounts they dont use much. Thats always handy.

Sometimes i go on holiday for quite a long time.

But to cut a long story short, I nick the tea bags.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 15:13, Reply)

Er...
"Frankspencer has been a member for 1 year, 1 month and 1 day and has posted 425 QOTWs"
(frankspencer, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 15:01, Reply)

Not me, honest gov
A while back, in an office not too dissimilar to the one I work in…
One of the guys in the office (and his wife from a different floor) had been trying for a baby for ages and ages, nothing doing, so they tried Artificial insemination, again, nothing doing. So finally they decided to adopt a child. Once the deed was done, a card came round the office for people to sign and some kind soul wrote in it "Give me my kid back you bastard".
(fower.thief, Wed 15 Aug 2007, 14:33, Reply)

I was too honest in my quarterly review.
It's more of a "why should you have been fired from your job?", but I hope you'll forgive me.

I worked for a now-bankrupt part of the Public-Private Partnership responsible for cocking up London's Underground network. Let's call them Metro... Web.

It was a terrible, terrible place. Two floors of very high-up office tower were entirely devoted to creating files, counting files, pushing around files, amalgamating files and filing files on all the bits of the underground that didn't work: knackered bridges, tunnels about to cave in, rickety platforms, leaky sewers, loose rails... you get the picture. There were probably about 50 people devoted to this task, and around 30 000 files (yes, there are _that_ many problems with the underground infrastructure).

This was balanced by about 8 people whose actual job it was to get down the tunnels at night (when the tube stops running and they turn the power off), inspect said problems and oversee the repairs. They were horribly underpaid and seen by a lot of the office staff as the lowest rung on the ladder: after all they had to get their hands dirty. It was a classic management-heavy case of too many chiefs and not enough indians.

While at first I thought my job there was a cushy number - I was actually told to sit at my desk and try and look busy for my first week while they tried to think of something for me to do - after a while, it was truly awful. Morale was depressingly low; there's only so much bureaucracy a claustrophobic office can tolerate, even if it's self-generated. Any email or internet access was closely watched, even though there was painfully little else to do while at one's desk.

I tried: I came up with more efficient ways of dealing with reports, I actually read the files and started eliminating duplicates; I worked overtime to archive old files and I even found a way to more or less automate my given job by creating a couple of very fancy Excel files.

My first quarterly review finally came around, five months after I'd started working there. I was given a couple of sheets of paper with the usual banal "how have you progressed" questions and asked to scan them and email them to HR once done.

(Another example of how the place worked: HR was on the floor below, where they would print out my scanned, emailed forms and pore over them before giving them to a data entry clerk to read and type my responses into a spreadsheet.)

I was pretty fed up with working there, it had been a bad week and I rather foolishly gave some truthful answers to their questions. I described in a lot of detail how I'd contributed to the company while I worked there; I highlighted some areas in which I felt I needed training; I pinpointed parts of the department that could be improved - all well so far. Unfortunately I also let slip that I'd spent my first week trying to "look busy" and explained just how much of my day job was now completely automated by a self-written chunk of Visual Basic Excel geekery.

Two days later, when called to discuss my responses with a dense, cheap-suit-clad manager and two very humourless HR drones, I realised I'd shot myself in the foot. By the end of the meeting I knew I'd be leaving that day: I was asked what my favourite part of the job was and, after a long think while looking out of the window, I could only reply "the view."

I was told I was no longer required later that week.


Length? From the 34th floor, by my repeated, desperate calculations it would have taken about 3.9 seconds...
( sanityclause is waiting until, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 20:01, Reply)

Well...


It did get very boring working at Blockbusters
(Pesky Eskimo Gadzooks!, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 12:34, Reply)

Because I am deceiving my employer
For 2 years now I have used viagra to maintain an erection during filming sessions.

Full colour climax productions have been deceived by me into thinking that i can maintain 12 inches of hard man meat for 2 hours straight before unleashing 8 ropes of hot fat over the face of my leading lady.

("Gracefully unleashing" if you follow the review of my last film "White Trash, Black Splash" in Which Grot Film).

But no, I am using chemicals to keep my ramrod hard.

I also use laxatives during the scat scenes - sure they aided my "fecal fountain" signature scene, and netted the company millions in sales from the rave reviews, but I am a fraud.

I have been putting bromide in the tea of other male actors in the business, to allow me to get roles they can't 'sustain', and when bromide fails, I show them nude photographs of Lisa Riley and Lizzy Bardsley from Wifeswap. If that doesnt work, I sneak up on them in the changing rooms and beat them repeatedly on the balls with a hammer.

Oh the shame.
(LunarJim, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 14:49, Reply)

Not me but..
I was shopping in Greece with a girl who was on the large side. OK, she was quite obese. So, we walked into a branch of Morgan and the stick-thin assistant looked my friend up and down before saying, "Madam, we have NOTHING for you." Friend walks out crying.

Should the assistant have been fired for that?
(frankspencer, Wed 15 Aug 2007, 12:26, Reply)

A former colleague of mine
was, in one of his previous jobs, employed as a welder. In Ireland, very close to the border with Northern Ireland. He would have been sacked for this little stunt (if not imprisoned) had he been found out.

One of his favourite tricks was to fill an empty crisp bag with oxygen and acetylene, put it on a piece of newspaper, light the paper and shove it in below the cubicle door when someone was having a crap. The victim would instinctively stamp on it to put it out, which of course expelled the gas and caused it to explode. Much hilarity ensued from seeing the innocent crapper emerging shellshocked from the cubicle.

Anyway, one day, said mate and his colleagues decided to scale up the experiment. They got a big black bin bag, and filled it with an explosive oxygen/acetylene mix, sealed the end with tape and took it off over a field into a ditch. They placed a "fuse" of newpaper, lit the end and ran like hell. 100m or so away, they sat, hiding below a piece of sheet steel.

Several minutes passed.

Eventually, they decided the paper had gone out and went to approach the device. Major error - never go back to a firework once lit, children. They had fortunately only gone a few feet before it went off.

He described the effect, which occurred in a fraction of a second, of the hedge by the ditch suddenly going from green leaves to nothing, and a ripple in the grass as the shock wave made its way over the field. Then BOOOOMM!

They legged it back to work.

Seconds later there were police sirens and blue lights everywhere. As there was no evidence of any explosion, save for the mutilated hedge, they were never caught. But apparently when the heat was off, they'd gone back to the scene and found no evidence of the bin bag, just a bare earth crater where the grass had been blown away, and a large amount of slimy green mush, which was the foliage which had been blown off the hedge.

Must have been quite spectacular.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Wed 15 Aug 2007, 10:06, Reply)

I set fire to a colleague
with an air freshener and lighter while he was having a crap.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Tue 14 Aug 2007, 11:51, Reply)

Rewarding myself
I had nearly forgotten about the dramatic exit I made from my glittering former career as a Sainsburys petrol station checkout slave.

I was only doing the job to save up to go travelling, and it sucked balls. I was completely bored and had plenty of time to dream up scams and time wasting schemes. This was when Reward points (now nectar) had just come out and you could use them for all sorts of useful things...like paying your food bill, phone bill, restaurant bills and days out - if you had enough of them that is. Which I did, since every single person who didn't present a reward card automatically donated them to the Groovchik fund.

It lasted about 9 months until some top security boffin came down from London to investigate a ‘serious case of fraud’, oops. The management got extremely over excited and got the police to sit in on my exit interview, I was then frogmarched offsite and asked never to return (or apply for a Reward card, snarf). The thing that really, really pissed them off was that they couldn’t prosecute me – I’d done them out of several thousand pounds but at that stage there was no law covering the theft of ‘electronic impulses’. Oh how I laughed, and went to Asia for 6 months.

But I did feel bad about my lovely boss John, who tried to cover for me…what a sweetheart. Sorry John, it was the evillous me.
(groovchik, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 15:56, Reply)

I can beat any claim of "I do nothing"
I actually, truly did nothing in my last job for the last 5 months. I didn't turn up to work, I didn't check my emails, I didn't answer my work mobile. I'd just had enough and stopped coming in, but since I had 4 managers and a 'mentor' they must have all assumed one of them was working with me. Oh wait, I did do one thing. Fill in my timesheet every month with "37.5 hours training". But one day a recorded delivery letter arrived to say I needed to come in and discuss why I had been training for so long, and I resigned since the game was up. They even let me keep my work laptop AND gave 2 weeks extra pay as a bonus for never having a sick day. Best. Job. Ever.
(bonjelafiend, Mon 13 Aug 2007, 10:26, Reply)

Iceland for the epic win
But I can say why I WAS fired from my job, right?

I worked at Iceland from October 2005 to November 2006. It was the best work of my life, I worked with two of my best friends and every single person there, even the bit-of-a-cunt manager, was a great bloke/girl, and the drinks down the pub after work were legendary.

Stuff I did that should have got me fired but didn't:

-Regularly took 50-100% more of my break than I was entitled to. Between the employees the record was 300%, something I couldn't quite match with my 200%, taking 45 minutes instead of 15.
-When the shop was particularly quiet (usually) me and my friends would take it in turn to make a noise that we described as the sound an oriental woman would make if a large cock was suddenly rammed up her bum, but which, in all honesty, sounded a lot like a cat being raped and strangled. You'd hear these death-calls from one end of the store, then an answer from the other end. If a customer looked at you in a "WTF" manner, you simply shook your head and said "bloody kids coming in here mucking around " before setting off round the corner to do it yourself.
-Making a suit out of cardboard boxes. Well, who hasn't?
-Epic duels with brooms and/or mops in the warehouse. Spiffing stuff.
-Outright swearing at dense customers who wouldn't notice. Just a few of these are examples of real conversations that took place:
"OK, madam, that's £2.34 change and your reciept, you cunt."
That was a regular when giving change on tills. Also:
"Excuse me, young man, where might I find the caster sugar?"
"I'm afraid we don't have any here, but you can fuck me in my cunt if you'd like."
Our logic was that no one would notice the offensive utterances, and that if they did, they would simply think "he couldn't have possibly said that."

The real stand-out moment in my mind, though, is thus: Iceland, as you may well know, have a home delivery service. How it works is that a customer comes to the till, asks for a delivery. Till-bitch rings for a shop floor-bitch, who packs up bags, takes them out back, crates them up and leaves them for the driver. Dead easy, but fucking hassle, and you learn to dread the bell that signals a delivery.

Iceland closes at 2000 hours. At approx. 1957, some old bint comes in with a massive trolley and wants a home delivery. Who's the bitch who has to crate it? Me.

I wanted to buy myself some dinner. Now this old cunt is standing over me, ten minutes after I've stopped being paid, telling me to make sure her cheese doesn't get squashed. She's highly adamant about this. I smile politely and tell her not to worry, it won't be.

Six or seven minutes later, and my colleagues come out back to find me whirling a plastic bag over my head, smashing it into the walls and desk and anything, blowing it to buggery. Rectum? That's right. Inside the bag- old hag's cheese. From that day forth, whenever one of us was dealing with a cuntish customer who wanted a delivery, the till-bitch would ask the packer to "get some cheese once you've done that." In this manner, sugar was pierced and split, fizzy drinks shaken to fuck and bread squashed for months on end.

What got me fired in the end was mine and another friend's "foolproof" way of robbing the tills. We got about a grand between us but got found out, fired and arrested.

So don't steal kiddies, you lose a brill job where you can call customers cunts and make fantastically surreal screaming noises.

I now work at Sainsbury's on the tills after conveniently forgetting to mention that I ever worked at Iceland. It's boring as fuck.

Length? Best thirteen paid months of my life.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 23:00, Reply)

call center
I managed to get a 1:1 outgoing call to coffee break ratio.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 18:20, Reply)