Like Trying To Get Blood From A Stone(r)

(For the holiday season, we’re selling large bags of cinnamon-scented pine cones, kind of like big potpourri bags. Earlier a customer pricked his finger on the bag he was buying, enough to draw a little blood, but nothing else. In the end he bought the bag. I’m telling the story to a coworker later.)

Coworker #1: “And then what happened?”

Me: “He just looked right at me and said, ‘Do you have a bandaid?’ and held his finger out. And there was a big bead of blood there, but—”

Coworker #2: *walking right past a display of pinecones* “Wait. WHAT?”

Me: “Oh, one of my customers pricked himself on a pinecone—”

Coworker #2: *looks in horror at the display* “DID HE BLEED ALL OVER THIS?”

Me: “What? No! No, he pricked his finger on THE BAG HE WAS BUYING, and then took it home. Everything’s fine. None of the other pinecones were bled on.”

Coworker #2: ” *visibly relaxes* “Oh, thank God! I was standing right next to them when you said that and for a second I thought I’d get herpes.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Coworker #2: “Herpes. You know, from touching something someone bled on.”

Me: “What the h*** do they teach in ‘sex-ed’ now?”