Foundry Work
My dad told me about this fella from his days working in a foundry in Coventry. This was the sixtees, the summer of free love if you had cash, or if you were skint like my dad, the summer of being up to your armpits in grime, molten metal, terrible noises and the daily excitement of knowing you could be rushed to hospital in the back of an ambulance missing a part of a limb. It was an American firm my dad worked for with head offices over in Denver. As such, the evil uber swine who ran the plant was an American they had flown in. This bloke was a complete arsehole. If there was a rushed order, he’d be known to get one of his many underlings to take the batteries out of the big clock they had in the place so the foundry workers would find themselves working half an hour or so of inadvertant and unpaid ‘overtime’.

And he’d go off on one at the slightest provocation. Completely blow his gasket, rage and fume, and almost always sack some poor fucker on the spot for daring to be too tired or too ill or too overworked to operate as a normal functioning human beign in an incredibly physical, stressful, and mentally demanding job. This overlord of the foundry had a name, but because of his monumental rages everyone knew him by his nickname: Steam. Because you could almost see the steam shoot out his ears when he got mentalist angry.

My dad, being a huge scary looking fucker who could crush cars with his bare hands and also having a funny Italian accent and a pregnant wife at home who depended on his wage, was a regular target for Steam’s nefarious schemes. My dad would regularly find himself performing petty tasks for Steam’s enjoyment – he even had my dad up in his office a few times with a duster, polishing his furniture until it gleamed. Just because Steam liked the thought of having this giant of a man doing something he thought was demeaning, something he thought made my dad look like a raging homosexual (Steam liked the gays as much as he liked the immigrants; weird, really – what with him coming from abroad himself).

So, one time when my dad was up in Steam’s office and after he’d given the place a good spring clean, my dad emptied half a bottle of Brasso into Steam’s coffee. Steam came in, saw my dad, and ordered him back down to the foundry floor as “this isn’t a holiday camp – you’re here to work,” as he took a big pull on his now cool cup of beans. Apparently Steam went a strange colour, made a sound like a duck being strangled, and immediately lost control of his bowls and shat himself in a series of noisy, horrible, tempestuous farts. Shit actually ran down both his trouser legs. Steam went running from the room, leaving a weird vapor trail of poo, rushing round the offices much to the secret amusement of the bank of secretarial staff who were also treated like, well, shit by this man, and Steam eventually ended up in the bogs where he remained for the rest of the day. Cursing, farting, shitting, and begging for an end to his misery. And from that day on this fella, born in the USA who’d seen an end to his Glory Days, had a new nickname. The boss was known as

Loose Ring Steam.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:20, 2 replies)

SPANG
Cos it's only Tuesday. Click though cos I didn't see it coming.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 13:32, closed)

I always skip to the end of long posts
To see if it is a pun, and who posted it, and only read them if it's worth the effort. In this case, apparently it was.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Tue 23 Jun 2009, 17:23, closed)