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Nothing Halts A Lesson Like A Spot Of Rabies

| Learning | March 3, 2014

(I’m teaching a class of kindergarten students how to read with some old ‘Dick and Jane’ books. They are taking turns reading individual sentences.)

Student: “See… Spot. See… Spot run.”

Student #2: “Run… Spot, run.”

Bored Student: “Spot has rabies. RUN, JANE, RUN!”

(The students actually believed that’s what it said! I had to escort him to the office, and the principal was actually just as amused by that as I was!)

The Fine Wine Between Pleasure And Pain

, , , , | Right | February 3, 2012

Me: “Thank you for calling Pain Management of Hamilton County. This is Pat, are you a new or existing patient?”

Caller: “This isn’t Branchville Winery?”

Me: “No, ma’am. This is Pain Management of Hamilton County.”

Caller: “I guess I’m looking for a different kind of pain management…”


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The Good, The Bad, And The Smugly

| Working | May 9, 2013

(After an accident, my best friend was critically wounded on the left side of his face, losing his eye and scarring him. While his scars are slowly healing, he wears an eyepatch and bandages on his face both to help healing and because the scars are VERY ugly. This happens when we grab a bite at a popular chain of restaurants.)

Me: “Hello, we would like a tab—”

Waiter: “No.”

Me: “What?”

Waiter: “You didn’t read the sign? ‘No face-covering clothing or headgear.’ I won’t serve you as long as your boyfriend keeps his mask.”

My Friend: “First, I ain’t his boyfriend. Second, that’s not a mask, but REAL bandages.”

Waiter: “No exceptions. You drop your Halloween getup or you walk out.”

My Friend: “Okay, dude, get me a manager before it gets ugly.”

(My friends has to insist for a while, but the waiter finally caves in and brings a manager with him. The manager looks bored as hell while the waiter is smiling smugly.)

Manager: “Sir, my employee just warned me about your behavior. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”

My Friend: “For what? Because I don’t want to show my wounds to everybody?”

Manager: “Unless you have a medical document that proves you have a disability, you can’t keep those.”

My Friend: “I’m not disabled. I’m just WOUNDED!”

Manager: “No proof, no exceptions. Now leave.”

Me: “Let’s just—”

My Friend: *suddenly grinning* “Well, if you REALLY want proof…”

(My friend turns around for a while, then swiftly turns towards them, giving everybody in sight a VERY detailed view of his burns, cuts and, worse of it, his eye wound. The manager turns pale, then falls flat on her back while the waiter literally runs away screaming. In the end, the restaurant owner came down, witnessed my friend’s wounds… and threatened to call the police because we were causing a disturbance. We left, but not before getting their names and writing quite a letter to corporate, including several documents from my friend’s doctors about his state. We received a letter of apologies, several coupons and the promise that those people were “dealt with”.)

It’s Going To Be A Long Day

, , , | Right | December 28, 2009

Me: “What type of Internet do you have?”

Customer: “Internet Explorer.”

Me: “No, sorry, I meant what type of Internet, like your ISP?”

Customer: “Internet.”

Me: “No, what type.”

Customer: “Uh… modem?”

Me: “What kind of modem?”

Customer: “Black.”

Me: “Is it plugged into a phone cable or a coaxial cable? Like a cable you’d plug into your TV.”

Customer: “It’s plugged in to…  the wall.”


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Smoking With A Gun

, , , , | Right | March 4, 2013

(I work in a convenience store. We usually work in pairs because of the neighborhood, but my coworker is running late. A couple of regulars of mine find out and decide that they’ll hang out until he shows up. I’m female. We are chatting when a very obviously inebriated man comes stumbling into the store and up to the counter. He reeks of urine and has a gun in his hand, which he lays on the counter.)

Drunk Customer: “Gimme [Brand Of Cigarettes].”

Me: *trying not to look at his gun* “Long or short?”

Drunk Customer: “Short.”

Me: “Okay.”

(I hand him his cigs, and he fumbles with his wallet, still holding the gun. He tosses me some money, grabs the pack of cigarettes, and stumbles out without waiting for his change. I take a deep breath, pick up the phone, and dial 911.)

Me: “Um, yeah, there’s a drunk man with a gun wandering around [Street]. You might want to pick him up.”

(After I hang up, one of my regulars, who’d backed up slowly into the aisles during this exchange, comes up to me.)

Regular: “D***, you’ve got balls of steel!”


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