» Workplace Boredom

I perform acts of impromptu revenge…

Tenuous, but it was at work…

The other morning, I was sat on the khazi, as you do…and I’d finished my unusually efficient ‘innards evacuation’ activity…without any disastrous calamity (for a change)…so was happily finishing a game of solitaire on my phone before meandering back to work…

Suddenly, I heard the sound of the toilet block door being hoofed open, quickly followed by the urgent clatter of hurried steps…somebody obviously had a ‘mole at the counter’ in quite a dire (and potentially catastrophic) way.

The next thing I heard was the door of the trap next to me being slammed shut…then my poor ears bore witness to the frenzied sounds of dunghampers being wrenched down, followed by the gurning exasperation of a man whose spluttering ringpiece was blasting forth death-defying decibels of defecation…it was an almost virtuoso musical impersonation of the eruption of ‘Mount Vesuvius’ performed on the solo bum-trumpet.

I placed my hands firmly over my ears as I heard splats ricocheting around the battered bowl, and suffered the din of a pitiful poo-perpetrator squirming on the seat, groaning, farting and running his hands down the wall panel as he tried to hold on for dear life through the sheer violence of this excessive excrement exorcism.

At this point, (mid-whimper) I recognised the voice – It was none other than Derek, the potbellied, bullying mongoloid with a face like a freshly felched fudge funnel…

The very same Derek, in fact, who thinks he’s a fucking ‘kung fu master’ just because he’s watched the ‘Transporter’ movies, and who went out of his way (without any provocation) to try and make me look like a sirloin cuntsteak in front of the board of directors at the last meeting we attended. We don’t know each other that well, but his smarmy, nasal whine is burned into my mind.

I continued wretching quietly to myself as his sphincter-numbing slurry-fest perpetuated mercilessly next door…then to my surprise I heard some of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you can imagine following such carnage.

I heard the sound of someone reaching for the loo-roll, closely followed by the sound of an empty tube being spun about its holder…then the sorrowful groan from a total wankspanner of a bloke being rapidly plunged into darkest despair.

I checked my watch…and realised Derek was already late for a very important meeting. Also, I could barely comprehend how uncomfortable he must have been sat atop that mound of munting mess from his mutilated mud-oven.

Disclaimer: Now please believe me, beautiful b3tards, I’m normally quite a nice, amiable guy…but I think you’ll all agree that I have had more than my fair share of crapper-related mishaps and misery…besides…this bloke is a right cunt.

So now...it was PAYBACK TIME.

I patiently waited, until with cringing inevitability, I heard Derek’s voice, trembling with shame as he was forced to humbly request the kindness of a ‘stranger’ through the brown, gassy wisps that were now slowly relieving him of his life-force by way of painful suffocation…

Derek *knocks*: ‘Scuse me mate, pass us some paper under?’

I contemplated for a moment…then spitefully confidently replied:

‘No!’

…

Derek: ’Pardon?’

Me: ‘What? – are you deaf as well as disgusting? It’s not my fault if you didn’t check for bogroll before you decided to splatter the place, and befoul the whole area with your repugnant effluence…so NO!’

Derek: ’Well, erm…what am I supposed to do?’

Me: ‘Quite frankly that’s none of my concern. Now…If you don’t mind I’ll be on my way. Enjoy.’

Derek: ‘Oh god, mate, I’m desperate! P-p-p-pleeeeease?’

Me (putting on fake ‘friendly’ tone): ‘Awww …well…’

After a dramatic pause my voice changed to a more vicious snarl as I continued:

Me: ‘Fiver’.

Derek: ‘What?’

Me: ‘You heard me. Five.English.Pounds. Consider it a fine for your lack of foresight and adequate preparation…like an ‘Idiot Tax’. Give me a fiver and I’ll see what I can do’.

Derek: ‘Fuck Off!’

Me: ‘Fair enough. Not my problem boyo. I’ll just inform the board that you won’t be attending the meeting then…(Here I start to whistle with an attempt at ‘menacing nonchalance’)

Derek: ‘Are you joking?.....Awww come on?’

Me: ‘Don’t ‘Awww come on’ with me, matey….and you’d better make your mind up quick…the price is going up…’

Derek: ‘Oh my GOD!’

After a brief pause I then heard the sound of tutting and mumbling, before a begrudged rummaging of clothes, and to my utter disbelief, a wrinkled up five pound note was coyly pushed under the side panel towards me.

He must have been really desperate.

Even though I was initially staggered at his submissive behaviour, It only served to spur me on.

Me: ‘There you go…now that wasn’t so difficult now was it?’

And with that, I tore off one single square of bogroll and slipped it back under the cubicle wall.

Derek: ‘Wha….? Is that it?’

Me: ‘Well, you didn’t stipulate exactly how much bogroll you would be requiring, did you?’

Derek: ‘*whimper* oh bloody hell…ok then …*sigh*. Could I have lots more please?’

Me (cheerily): ‘Noooo problem………that'll be another fiver’

Derek: ‘Oh for fuck’s sake!…But I haven’t got any more money’

Me: ‘Oh dear….*tuts* Oh dear oh dear…You haven’t learned a thing, have you?‘

And with that, I promptly begin to make my way out…making deliberate ‘step’ sounds towards the door…pretending to abandon Derek in his rancid honk-hovel.

Derek (with an audibly increased state of panic): ‘Oh god mate…don’t be like that…help us….please mate…..mate?......MAAAAATE!?!!”

I then heard his whimpers turned to sniffs, then mumbles of ‘oh-god-oh-god-oh-god' to himself…as he struggled to comprehend his options.

(I, meanwhile, became increasingly and joyously aware that he was just as afraid of toilet-related embarrassment as I was).

I then also realised that it actually wouldn’t be too long before someone else turned up to use the facilities...and whoever arrived would no doubt help him out, so I decided to bring my fun to an end.

As a final act, I walked back towards his cubicle and knocked on the door…

Me: ‘Alright then, cunt-face, I’ll let you off. Be more careful in future’.

With relief ebbing from his words he courteously gasped: ‘Oh, cheers pal’.

I then pushed his five pound note back under the door and said: ‘There you go…You can wipe your arse on that!’

At this point Derek let out a sigh so pathetic that it reverberated around the cold toilet tiles…and I just couldn’t stand anymore…I burst out laughing, then relented, handing him a big wadge of the precious poo-wipe-paper which he had coveted for so long.

And you know what?…deep down…I don’t think I’m really cut out for that kind of behaviour…If it hadn’t been for B3ta, I probably wouldn’t have done anything…

so I blame you lot – my conscience is clear…sort of…this time anyway.

But just in case…I’ll still hang on to that ticket to Hell…

(Fri 9th Jan 2009, 12:57, More)

» Housemates

The Colour Purple…

Disclaimer: Please get comfy…and you might want to get a cup of coffee / can of Redbull / gram of speed to keep you going through this one…

When my brother and the sugar-coated Sherman tank that ended up becoming his (now ex) wife were star crossed young lovers, they were desperate to shack up together and plunge nose-first into credit-related chaos.

Unfortunately, they were hindered in their plight by that annoying, age old stumbling block of having no job, no money…and criminal records.

Their doomed blossoming romance needed help…and someone answered their call…

Behold! Bumbling along, like a drunken, late-teens, slightly sex-obsessed superhero, whose special powers consisted only of regular employment, being debt-free and having no previous convictions against his name…step forward 'Super Pooflake' – aka: ‘Security Bond & Deposit Guarantee Boy’!

I signed up and lived there for about a year or so, genuinely enjoying my first taste of freedom without the parents...although to be fair, my folks were always pretty liberal on the ‘bringing girls home’ front (Dad used to ‘high five’ me as I escorted the young ladies out of the house 'post-humpage'). My steady girlfriend of the time pretty much moved in with me, work was nearby – all was good.

Unfortunately, although we made a fair fist of blissful cohabitation for a while, living under the same roof as my brother and his monu-mentalist missus simply couldn’t last.

(Their domestic disputes made the hundred years war look like a ‘bit of a tiff’…I soon developed a sort of Jedi-esque ‘I have a bad feeling about this’ ability at spotting violent arguments just before they kicked off…and spider senses to avoid ashtrays just before they whizzed past my head)

Eventually, I informed them of my decision to move out, and all was amicably agreed. They had been on the premises for over a year, were getting by and were settled in; however, they asked me to hang around for a bit whilst they found a replacement lodger to help them with the almost overlooked matter of paying.the.fucking.rent.

I don’t know how, or where from, but eventually, they found their saviour in the spindly form of ‘Nigel’.

Nigel was an accountant-type fellow and owned a home PC, and this was in the days where your average compooter-a-tron was the size of an articulated lorry, had twirly-round tape wheel thingies, and thousands of nondescript lights blinking on and off like the set of Blake’s 7.

I was impressed. However, my suspicions were first aroused as to him possibly having ‘rolled onto the mouldy side of the fruit bowl’ when I was helping him move in, and I complimented him on some of the artwork that adorned his new bedroom walls.

Although the subject matter wasn’t exactly my ‘cup-of-tea’ (general wildlife, gore fests, people hanging from trees etc), I could at least acknowledge the talent involved.

“They’re good” I bleated nervously before enquiring: “Did you paint them yourself?”

He then informed me that he had bought the paintings from various artists, but that every piece had one thing in common. Each artist featured in his collection had later committed suicide…this was his motivation for buying them.

'Ooooooookay then' thinks I, as I slowly back out of the room...

Nigel got past the first few days without incident, and like so many stories on this QotW will no doubt testify, he seemed to be one of those guys who pretty much ‘kept himself to himself’.

To celebrate his arrival (and my subsequent freedom), we decided to venture out for a good old ‘boozy do’. Nigel was invited but said he had ‘other plans’. Non perturbed, my brother, his g/f and I went to our local and partook in the time-honoured tradition of getting bladder-bustingly shitfaced.

When kicking out time came, we were predictably kicked out, and we staggered back to the house for a 'sophisticated night cap' (tins of cider), and the welcome invitation for me to sleep on the sofa.

We crept along as we approached the house, in a conscientious move to avoid causing a disturbance. My brother’s g/f then quietly opened the front door, and as we tip-toed along the hallway we noticed that the lounge light was still on. ‘Ah, Nigel must still be up’, we thought to ourselves as we opened the door…

The sight that awaited us shook me to the very core.

Nigel was laying flat out on the floor, plum faced, completely stark-bollock naked, except for his trollies which were pulled down by his ankles, and a thick leather belt wrapped tightly round his throat. In one of his hands was a half drunk bottle of scotch…on his other hand was a purple silk glove, and in it he was holding his limp, dribbling, flaccid bacon bazooka, which was drooping snoozily, with a drizzle of post-ejaculatum oozing from his blistered hog’s eye. Surrounding him was a collection of jizzed-to-a-pulp tissues, scattered liberally about like stumpy, scrunched up little monuments to all things spunkilicious.

Nigel had passed out completely…fixed with the kind of glazed, gurning expression that you find on mongs clutching tickets to a Chuckle Brothers extravaganza.

He had quite literally wanked himself into blurry unconsciousness.

Aghast at this initial sight, our eyes were then turned to the subject playing on the video…

Despite the shaky camerawork, we could clearly make out an uncomfortable-looking woman repeatedly thrusting herself back and forth on to the gargantuan dangling phallus of a strapping farm horse – and both parties were ‘whinnying’ frantically as the dong-tastic Dobbin was plunged balls deep into her cavernous cack-canyon time and time again.

As we collectively recoiled we were just in time to watch another young lady collect about half a gallon of fresh horse spaff into a carrier bag…then tip it all over herself.

Time then seemed to slow down for us, Matrix style, as we stood there looking at the screen, then each other, then Nigel, then the screen again...as we noticed the action had changed to feature a rather blessed-in-the-chest-department female receiving enthusiastic oral pleasure from a weapons grade Rottweiller…whilst another was frying the dog’s miniature mountain of munting manure…and eating it. (she was using a knife and fork though...it seems there’s always time for good table manners).

“Whooooa?” I mewed meekly, leaving my mouth agape as my fledgling mind warped more and more beyond recognition with every passing frame of filthy film footage.

…

Eventually, my brother timidly ponders: “Ahh……erm……Shhhh, don’t wake him” he whispers kindly, holding his finger to his lips.

In the meantime, his psychopathic significant other had stepped over Nigel, and quietly switched off the TV…But as she heard my brother's words she breathed deeply, then visibly ‘snapped’ – screaming out at a lung-collapsing volume:

”DON’T FUCKING WAKE HIM?”

Bellowing with a force that would have had Brian Blessed reaching for the ear plugs, she continued: ”Oi! *kicks Nigel stoutly in the ribs* – you dirty, filthy fucker! What the fucking FUCK do you think you’re doing?”

Nigel slowly awoke and he rubbed his eyes, then after a brief realisation of his surroundings and the situation, he let out a piercing screech, like tyres in a 70’s car chase, before catapulting himself skywards in the manner of someone who had just received 3000 volts through his wrinkled, spent scrote (which on reflection he probably would have enjoyed).

He then desperately scrambled about for his clouts, whilst attempting in vain to cover as many offending articles as he could; yet only succeeding in doing what looked like a combination of synchronised swimming, an epileptic episode, and an impressive rendition of the ‘funky chicken’ dance.

Gazing down at this pathetic personification of purest perversion I tried to stifle the onset of giggles by adopting the moral high ground, ‘tutting’ loudly, shaking my head slowly, then turning and walking away in mock disgust…before running out of earshot and laughing like a particularly ticklish drain.

I slept in the bath.

To his credit, Nigel didn’t move out straight away… Fair play to him, he tried to ‘live it down’, but there are just some things that no amount of apologising can make up for, some things that you can’t just 'sweep under the carpet' (especially when you know what has taken place on that carpet)

Most of all…it’s impossible to share a house with someone when you can’t even bring yourselves to look each other in the eye.

He lasted about a fortnight.
(Fri 27th Feb 2009, 11:58, More)

» I'm going to Hell...

Pray for Pooflake…

This has just happened…

Backstory: I had a massive Chinese Takeaway last night…mmmm. With extra curry sauce. It was nom-tastic.

What I hadn’t had however…is a good, old-fashioned 'didgeridoo'...a 'grand Macca'...a ‘Thora Hird’ (or for normal folk, a poo)…for nearly three days now.

Therefore, my cunning scheme was to quaff said copious amounts of Oriental delights, in the hope that the heavy (and highly potent) level of such spicy devoured goodness might dislodge what was proving to be a rather stubborn squatter up ‘cack canyon’.

And lorks, In the name of Peter Stringfellow’s near-perfect teabagging technique, it certainly did the happy trick.

So I'm at work, and after some more-than-adequate warning blasts, the time rapidly arrived for me to awkwardly waddle along like John Wayne to the Dump Depository Department, letting off little trumps as I go; and ‘tutting’ in order to either mask the ‘quacks’ or trying to nonchalantly blame the noises on squeaking chairs, shoeleather and suchlike.

I finally reach the Lavs…kicking the entrance door open with fevered desperation…and…every cubicle is taken! FUCKBILGE! I curse the gods of toilet mercy, shaking my fist in the air, before dragging myself back to my desk.

And I wait...considering that five long, agonising minutes is well enough time for everybody to finish, I squirm uncomfortably on my chair…counting the seconds until my next opportunity for feacal evacuation.

Then I go back and try again.

Now, the toilet block where I work is always pretty busy…but three fucking hairy-total-bastard visits later and I am still unable to find a free trap where I can dig out this urgently nudging bum banana from my terminally strained sphincter.

I feared that if someone didn’t relent quickly, you would all soon be watching the news footage of a giagantic brown mushroom cloud over the centre of England, with me sat on top of it, watching the grotesque devastation and loss of life that would make the Asian Tsunami seem like a ripple in a paddling pool filled with pot-pourri.

Minutes pass…I’m sweating like a peado in a playground with a packet of Royhpnol-laced Polo mints, and I'm afraid to relax my stomach muscles in case there is any 'uninvited oozing'…God help me I even prayed…I then ventured one last time…

Visit number 4…STILL no cunting joy…and I feel like I am about to turn inside out, leaving behind nothing but a dishevelled stomach bag filled with semi-masticated noodle slurry and fleshy, flapping bundles of internal organs.

Yet suddenly, in my angst-ridden desperation, like a gift from God himself, I notice the little ‘glint’ of a sign…

…on the disabled toilet door.

It’s like it is calling me...letting me know that it understands I have no other option. Besides, I reckon the 'roomy' cubicle is pretty much fair game anyway, considering the only disabled person in the place is ‘Helen’, the boring admin clerk with the bandy, buckled dwarf-legs.

I weigh up my options and make my decision to use the disabled chod bin. I rationalise to myself that It would be a far worse crime to burst my twitching bowels all over the surrounding corridor…

So I thought of my colleagues…equality…the children…(Well, the kids that needed dropping off at the pool anyway)…

And, after a quick check around, I tentatively step in….

The place is like a goddam Poo-planting paradise!.

But I didn’t have much time to admire the artwork on the walls…My clouts have barely reached my knees when…:

”UUrrggghhh….NNNngggg….Grrrrr…….”

*Spla-DOOOOOOOOSH!*

A monumental turd bearing a more-than-passable resemblance to a slimy brown Oil tanker emerges from my prolapsing rectum.

Although my hopes weren’t high, I just knew that this was going to be a wiping challenge of biblical proportions…the very polar opposite of a friendly ‘ghost’ crap.

The resulting aftercare service is indeed painful, multi-textured and laborious on my puckered papper passage. There is even blood involved. Ew.

Soon after, drained, exhausted, and with the stench of my rancid own-goal beginning to make my eyes water, I know the time has come to make good my escape.

I heave up my trollies and survey the damage with a heavy heart, yet vastly lightened bowel.

It looks like a post apocalyptic warzone. The bogroll has intermingled with the effluence, blood and water to create a sort of ‘chocolate-raspberry-ripple’ effect…Oh, the horror…

For the good of mankind I must banish this beastly behemoth to the watery depths from it's porcelain prison...so I tug on the bog handle…but it merely rattles in my hand…It’s like it’s not attached to anything. No flushing. Nothing. Just a gargantuan, putrid lump of purest ‘Forrest Gump’, with it’s tapered end poking out from the top of the water level, and a spirited reluctance to leave the party.

Oooh fucking hell.

I think to myself: ‘Is there some sort of secret, ‘Mason’s-handshake-like’ way to flush a disabled toilet?’

If there is…whatever it is, I couldn’t figure it out…and as the mound of fetid feculence and spent bumwad was starting to growl at me, I begin to frantically push and pull everything that looks even remotely like a handle in a vain and increasingly futile state of intense panic...

But nothing…nothing is getting rid of the abomination and insult to humanity that was the backside-busting brown trout staring at me from inside the pan.

Hitting it on the head with the spikey brush only made things worse.

Eventually, and with a crushing inevitability I realised I had no choice – I had to ‘abandon shit’…

I stealthily listened at the door…waiting until there was absolute silence. Then, biting my lip, I delicately turned the door handle, and slowly peered around. Nobody. Thank sweet merciful bollocks! I step out…still nobody. I close the door and take one stride away… the relief now sweeps over me in an almost orgasmic fashion as the realisation finally sinks in…’I’ve gotten away with it!’

The perfect Crime!

Now, with my tongue firmly lodged in my cheek and a cocky little ‘spring’ in my step, I metaphorically pat myself on the back, congratulate myself for a ‘Jobbie well done’…and swagger around the corner…

Straight into the path of Helen…poor, poor Helen…and her innocent helper…who is escorting her to the bogs.

Ah.

I couldn’t even bring myself to look her in the eye as she cheerily said ‘Alright, Pooflake?’

I mumbled something about being ‘extremely busy’ and shuffled off, glowing with shame.

Just the knowledge that she was about to helplessly hobble face-first into a deluge of my unholy arse-produce has condemned me for all eternity.

This kind of thing always seems to happen to me around Christmas time.

So…going to Hell?...Bring it on I reckon. It couldn’t be any worse than how I feel right now…

(Fri 12th Dec 2008, 13:33, More)

» Hypocrisy

Dare I say…

Asking for QotW suggestions, then ignoring them all and putting your own forward?
(Thu 19th Feb 2009, 13:22, More)

» My sex misconceptions

Fanny Batter – explained…

One afternoon when I was a kid, I was watching TV and became a bit confused at what I saw.

I went and found my dad who was busy in the greenhouse outside.

I casually tapped him on the shoulder and enquired: ‘Dad…what’s love juice?’

My dad spat his pipe into the begonias, and then realised that the time was right to do ‘the talk’

He poured himself a scotch, sat me down, then explained candidly and openly about sex, masturbation, pregnancy, STDs, anal intercourse and homosexuality.

Moments later, after I had picked my jaw up off the ground in wide-eyed astonishment, my dad enquired:

“By the way son, what were you watching on TV?”

I then replied: “Wimbledon...but I didn't see any 'arse-fucking' on that!”
(Mon 29th Sep 2008, 15:53, More)