b3ta.com user ChestyLaRue
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» Gyms

Changing room goddess
Every gym seems to have them. They're the fit, toned types who strut around the gym with the sole purpose of smiling inanely and looking great, only exerting themselves to the point where they might break into a sweat before wandering off sipping from a bottle of expensive mineral water.

That's bad enough in the gym itself, but even worse in the changing rooms when the Barbie dolls insist on stripping off and wandering around sans clothes as if to remind everyone else how flabby and wobbly they are and rub their noses in it.

I'd just finished my workout and was cowering in the corner of the changing room, struggling under a large towel and trying not to air too much flesh when one of these vapid nymphs floated into view wearing a small towel round her waist looking for all the world like a freshly lobotomized catologue model.

"Look at my breasts. Look. At My. Breasts. Aren't they perfect?"

Just then Barbie decides she's going to get into the shower and drops her towel when the whole illusion of perfection is abruptly shattered by her unfeasibly gargantuan muff. Honestly, it looked like she was trying to smuggle a cat under her towel.

I'm sure she looked slightly offended as I sniggered away in the corner.
(Fri 10th Jul 2009, 12:55, More)

» The Boss

Senile seniority
Of all the bosses I’ve ever had, one deserves special mention for his complete and utter buffoonery. Working in a completely humourless “professional” firm meant that moments of lightheartedness were few and far between, but the old duffer unintentionally provided many.

On the face of it, he was very much the affable white haired gent in his sixties who’d made his own way in life and was senior partner in the firm that bore his name. His smiling, grandfatherly face adorned quarterly newsletters and greeted new members of staff alike, carefully cultivating a family firm image.

Once through the door however, it didn’t take long to figure out that far from being a cuddly grandpa, “M” was a forgetful, boorish and rage inducing old giffer. I hadn’t been there long when the phone rang.

*ring-ring* “Hello? Pop down Charlie”

He actually meant “drop everything and come to my office right now”, for if you failed to appear within two minutes, he’d phone you again with the same request. And again and again.

If you turned up any later than 8:55 or left later than 18:00, M would assume that you were twiddling your thumbs with boredom and would drive you batshit with never ending demands.

*ring-ring* “Hello? I need a list of debtors. Pop down with it will you, Chelsea?”

*ring-ring* “Hello? Will you get me a list of who is coming to the cricket next week, no rush…anytime in the next five minutes will do”.

*ring-ring* “Hello? And get me a cup of coffee while you’re at it too”.

How we avoided being lynched or sued I have no idea. Several months on and M was recruiting a new receptionist cum secretary. He wanted a good candidate, so decided to vet the applications himself. He really showed his mettle this time.

The first candidate duly showed up and baulked at the sight of the narrow, treacherous steps to M’s office. The poor woman was obviously physically handicapped and stood a somewhat skewed four feet six tall in her heels.

“This job involves carrying files up and down stairs quite often” barked M, substituting the word “coffee” for “file”.

“It does say on my CV that I’m registered disabled” replied the unfortunate, shrivelled woman, “if you’d read my CV carefully you would have avoided wasting my time and yours” she continued.

“Ah. I see. I thought when you said you were disabled, it just meant you were a bit short, arf!”

The poor woman was duly sent on her way. It would never have worked out. You needed the patience of a saint.

*ring-ring* “Hello? Chester? I need you to pop down right away”.

Duly summoned, I walked into the office to find M sat there looking bewildered as usual.

“I’ve had my suit returned from the dry cleaners, but they didn’t send back my trousers. I need you to find out where they are” he commanded.

“Have you got the number?” I ventured.

“No. I’ve forgotten which dry cleaners I sent it to and my secretary has lost the receipt. You can use the Yellow Pages” he dismissed.

And that was it, I spent the afternoon phoning round dry cleaners trying to track down a pair of trousers.

Three days later he turns up at work wearing them.

“I didn’t put them in with my jacket. They were hanging in my wardrobe the whole time! That was lucky, wasn't it? Arf!”
(Tue 23rd Jun 2009, 15:39, More)