(I worked as an expediter at a famous chain restaurant. Guests can request fries to be salt-free if they have an allergy.)
Server: Hey I need you guys to make this pound of fries no-salt. She says she has allergies.
Me: Can you find out what her allergy is?
(Server leaves then returns smirking)
Server: She says the doctor disgnosed her with SEASONAL allergies. So no seasoning on any of her food.
(I work in the help desk for a fairly large corporation, and it’s routine that we get people’s IP addresses from them so we can log in to their machines and troubleshoot the issue. The IP addresses come out as four three-digit numbers [192.168.172.X] and I already know the first three numbers because all of our IP addresses start with the same three number groups [octets].)
Me: *mid-call* “…so click start, then run.”
Coworker: “Okay.”
Me: “Press enter, then type in IPCONFIG.”
Coworker: “Okay.”
Me: “That will show you an IP address of 192 dot 168 dot 100 dot something. I need the last part.”
Coworker: *silence*
Me: “Still there?”
Coworker: “Hold on.”
Me: “I just need the last part.”
Coworker: “Hold on.”
Me: “Okay.”
Coworker: *sighs* “One hundred and ninety-two billion, one hundred and sixty-eight million, one hundred and seventy-two thousand, two hundred and thirteen.”
Me: “Um, I just needed the last part.”
Coworker: “Then why didn’t you say that?”
Me: “I did. Also, those are periods, not commas.”
Coworker: “Oh.”
(The call went smoothly after that.)
I’m the prank caller in this story. My brother-in-law and I were roommates in college and did some part-time photography and darkroom work. Several years after graduation, he’s the owner of a photo processing center. I hadn’t talked to him in a while, so I give a call.
BiL: Hello, [photo center], how can I help you?
Me: [faking an old man’s voice] Hi, I’d like to get some pictures printed.
BiL: Certainly, sir, we can do that for you.
Me: I’d like some color pictures of some old negatives I have.
BiL: [Sensing trouble] Old?
Me: Yes, they are old black and white negatives.
BiL: Sir, we can’t make color pictures from black and white negatives.
Me: Why not? It’s color paper, right?
BiL: Well, it doesn’t work that way.
Me: [voice returning to normal] Well, you should learn not to take prank calls from your brother-in-law.
BiL: Hah. Figures.
Me: Do you get questions that odd?
BiL: You don’t know the half of it! Yours was hardly the strangest request I’ve gotten.
I really should get him to read this site. He can add the other stories.
(At my work, I do the processing for orders in the backroom, and we have these 80-pound rolls of paper to fill space. My space is the closest, and I have just replaced mine with the help of [Coworker #1] who does the lifting while I guide the bar, since it’s a two-person job. The space next to mine also runs out, so I go to get the paper ready.)
Coworker #2: “No, it’s okay. I can do it myself; I’m a guy.”
Me: “You think that just because I’m a girl I can’t do it?”
(I flip over the roll to take out the plastic ends.)
Coworker #2: “See? You’re struggling.”
Me: “Me being a girl does not mean I can’t lift something of a decent weight. You would know this if you weren’t assuming, so go get your pole ready for the paper.”
(I slid the paper on with a little difficulty, but the power of somebody telling me I couldn’t do something powered me through it.)
In my former employer’s hotel, the front desk was built so that one couldn’t see the front door — which was glass — while seated.
One summer night, while the wait-staff in the restaurant were still counting their tips, I heard a “thump” against the door. I decided I ought to go check it out, and was puzzled to find nobody at the door. I stepped outside, and there wasn’t a soul in sight to any direction. I turned to go back inside, and noticed something just in my peripheral vision on the ground. Looking down, I discovered a piece of cooked pork roast, about two to three inches thick and six or seven inches across, and an accompanying greasy splat almost dead-center on the glass of the door.
Left to ponder this mystery while cleaning the door, I came to the conclusion that someone both highly accurate with thrown projectiles and highly dissatisfied with their meal had discarded the hunk of pork from a moving vehicle.
When I told this story to my friends later, we christened the incident, “The Drive-By Porking.”
