CONTENT WARNING: Animal Injury (Results of a careless grooming job)
 

We had a horrific experience the first time we took our pup to a groomer in a pet store franchise. He’s admittedly a bit of a sensitive soul anyway and doesn’t travel well in cars, so when I collected him and he cried in the car home, I didn’t initially think anything of it, especially since they had admitted to slightly grazing one of his ears. (He’s a floppy-eared breed.)

We got home, and he immediately ran to his crate and would not come out. He even growled at us when we tried to coax him. That was not like my boy at all.

After we eventually persuaded him to come out, I looked him over, and he was covered in razor burn, grazes, and some actual cuts. The “graze” on his ear? An actual notch taken out of it. His privates were also grazed and bleeding. It took weeks for him to recover because he kept reopening the cuts.

I phoned and gave the store manager h*** over this and also reported them to their head office. After providing them photos, I was refunded the cost of the groom and offered vouchers for free cuts, but I told them that they were having a laugh if they thought I’d bring him back to them ever again.

CONTENT WARNING: Eating Disorder, Child Neglect
 

A friend of mine growing up had obscenely rich parents, a multi-million-dollar mansion, etc. He was an only child. When he was about twelve or thirteen, they used to leave him home alone for a night or a weekend while they went out to lavish galas. He was technically just old enough to be responsible for that amount of time, but he was immature in the way that teenage boys are. So, when they left him money to order a pizza (these parents never, ever cooked for themselves), he would keep the money to buy video games and just not eat.

Fast forward a few years. The loneliness and the lack of parental concern about his skipping meals led him to have a pretty serious eating disorder. Fortunately, they finally got him some good counseling and a nutrition coach, so he was getting healthy again by the time we graduated high school, but all of that would have been unnecessary if they had just been responsible parents in the first place.

Once his parents finally noticed something was wrong, part of his recovery plan involved getting a dog to keep him company. It was a tiny, fashionable dog that would look stylish in front of their mansion, but still, I think that was one of the best choices made by those questionable parents. The kid loved that dog to pieces.

I’m a sixty-ish-year-old woman wearing a knitted cardigan working the service desk of a library, with my hair up in a bun and reading glasses hanging around my neck. I am the stereotypical vision of an old librarian lady.

A young male customer walks up to the service desk and leans in for a whisper.

Customer: “So… I… uh… I got this drug test—”

Me: “I cannot sell you my urine.”

Customer: “How… how did you know I was going to ask that?”

Me: “You were here last month filling out job application forms. Here you are today reeking of weed. You got a job offer, and they have a drug test requirement. People like you also seem to think that either the library offers a lot more services than it really does, or we poor librarians are so poorly paid that we’d be willing to sell our own bodily fluids to make rent.”

Sadly, that last part isn’t too far from the truth.

Me: “Besides, my urine would be of no use to you anyway.”

Customer: “Why? It’s not like you could be pregnant.”

Me: “It’s cute you think my urine is free from illicit and mind-altering substances.”

I very sloooooowly curved my mouth up into a wide psycho smile, eyes wide. He backed away and I haven’t seen him since.

Related:
The Contrarian Ex-Librarian
The Contrarian Librarian: The DVD
The Contrarian Librarian Runs Out Of Time
The Contrarian Librarian: The Childhood Years
Softening Of The Contrarian Librarian

I’m scanning a customer’s items, and one of the items is a medicinal-looking cream.

Customer: “That cream is on sale, so that’s good.”

Me: “I’m glad you found it at a good price.”

Customer: “It’s for my man-parts.”

Me: *Scans faster*

Customer: “It’s because that b**** gave me a rash.”

Me: *Scans faster still*

Customer: “Why do b****es always gotta be b****es? I ain’t ever been with a b**** who wasn’t a b****!”

Me: *Scans furiously*

Customer: “Seriously, I got so many rashes down there. Why are women all b****es?”

Me: “Sir, if you wish to continue this conversation, I’m going to have to ask you to lie on a couch and start paying me a hundred bucks an hour!”

Minimum wage was not worth that trauma! Thankfully, he paid and got out there without venting any more of his issues, either medical or mental!

Related:
TMI Am Out Of Here!

Seeing a few recent stories on here reminded me of my experience. I’m a new hire, and my coworker is showing me how to stock the small pharmacy section of the convenience store.

Coworker: “Make sure the pads are kept on this side, as far from the condoms as possible. Some of the guys get a bit weird seeing them next to each other.”

Of course, as if on cue, a male customer has overheard us and feels the need to bless us with his opinion.

Customer: “It’s because men should be able to get their things without seeing that! They don’t need to be reminded about all the holes you’ve all got going on down there!”

Coworker: “Sorry, but how many holes do you think we have down there?!”

Customer: *With a comical amount of confidence* “Women have five holes: one for p*ss, one for periods, one for sex, one for birth, one for s***! Five holes, all in a line!”

Coworker: “Sir, we’re human beings, not flutes.”