I usually get my lunch on my way to work from a little deli that sells salads, burritos, wraps, that kind of stuff. Recently, I approached the counter, and I saw the owner was training a new girl about the general stuff, when an order came through the webpage

Owner: “Good. See this order? It’s special. This guy is the CEO of a big company; he’ll just send a sandwich list and nothing more. Just take the order and send it to the kitchen, and no talking whatsoever.”

New Girl: “What do you mean, no talking?”

Owner: “Don’t ask him who he is, where this is heading, payment method, how the delivery boy should announce he arrived, how would he like the sandwiches… don’t answer at all, or he’ll call screaming that you are disrespectful.”

New Girl: “So, how would we know—”

Owner: “—on this paper is every piece of information you need about those questions.”

I look at the owner with a pitiful face:

Me: “Why do you tolerate it?”

Owner: “Sincerely, he spends huge amounts daily, and I even overcharge him because I know he never looks at the price, but I wish every night that he’ll swallow rat poison.”

When I was seven, we had a teacher who was… special. She had many quirks and was a bit sensitive about not being right. One day she decided to teach about animals and their alimentary preferences.

Teacher: “So, the lion eats…?”

Us: “Meat!”

Teacher: “That’s right… and Elephants…?”

Us: “Plants.”

Teacher: “Right again! And chimpanzees…?” 

Cue twenty-ish kids who had no idea how to answer:

Teacher: “That’s easy, they eat bananas.”

That felt like a personal attack. I was seven, but I’ve always had a great memory and was such a fan of NatGeo. So, I said loudly:

Me: “[Teacher], they eat meat, fruit, and ants.”

She looked at me with a deathly glare.

Teacher: “No!  That’s wrong! Everyone knows chimps eat bananas!”

Me: “No, they use sticks that they suck on. By inserting them in anthills, the ants get stuck, and they can eat them.”

What followed was a tirade of reprimands by her that I can’t recall exactly because it was thirty years ago. I only know that I felt bad, went home, and complained to my parents. 

Later, I found out (as my parents told me years after) that they went to school the next day to meet with the principal and teacher, and in that meeting, she was trying to frame me as disruptive. She felt so superior until my father said:

Father: “You are a grown woman who screams at kids and gets animal knowledge out of a [popular kids’ magazine]. You’re objectively dumber than a seven-year-old.”

Related:
Banana Drama, Part 10
Banana Drama, Part 9
Banana Drama, Part 8
Banana Drama, Part 7
Banana Drama, Part 6

This happened to my dad around 1986. I’ll try to translate certain terms, so they’re understood by everyone. He was working in a fabric wholesaler in a low-ranking position: basically, he was the boy who moved stuff and ran errands. His boss had two characteristics: he had the shortest temper with people who obstructed his business, and he looked like he was homeless even though he had far more money than anyone realized.

One day, he sent my dad to the bank (mind you, a twenty-one-year-old guy in work clothes) to open a business account to handle international transactions and cheques. 

Dad goes on a Friday, and minutes later, he comes back.

Boss: “So, did you open it?”

Dad: “No, the teller looked at me, laughed, and said that if I can’t account for at least ‘two or three real estate properties,’ we don’t have enough money to do it.”

The boss was beyond p***ed, but instead of exploding, he said as calmly as he could:

Boss: “Monday morning, you don’t work. We’re going to the bank together.”

Cue Monday. Dad goes to the bank, and the boss parks his old Dodge 1500. He hands my dad boxes of papers and tells him to follow him to the teller.

Boss: “Hi, we’re here to open the account my employee tried to open last Friday. We have everything, but could you please go fetch the bank manager? I’d like him to be with the three of us for this.”

The manager comes, they go into one of the offices, and:

Boss: “So, the teller here told my employee that I needed ‘two or three real estate properties’ to open this account, right?”

Teller *Smiling sarcastically while looking at them.* “Well, yes… if you have trouble with that—”

Boss *Cuts him off immediately.* “—Oh, that’s no problem. What we have here are 120 photocopies of title deeds in my name. And because of your cheeky attitude—”*Pointing at the teller.* “—now you—” *Pointing at the manager.* “—can shove them all up your a**, because I’m closing every account here right now and taking them to another bank. Let’s go.”

They just stood up. My father was dismissed to go back to work. The boss stayed and fulfilled his threat.

And when I was born, that same man gave my dad 50% of the money to buy a new home for us three.

Great boss.

When I was in Middle school (age thirteen, back at the start of the millennium), we had a math teacher who was… special.

She was a fairly young woman (about thirty-five) who never arrived on time, had below-zero patience, and the teaching abilities of a mousepad. I was never a math genius, but I was still better than my friends, who struggled a lot and would have needed a more one-on-one approach.

This teacher hated my friends for the simple fact that they asked about everything because they didn’t understand. She just resorted to telling them to shut up, or plain ignoring them.

Around November, we were having some sort of final, and when the grades came… it was strange. I got a ten, and one of my friends had a three (A+ and F, for the Americans).

Friend: “I… don’t get it. I’m bad, but not that bad.”

Me: “And I’m not that good.”

Friend: “May I see your exam? I want to compare.”

We put together both sheets, and they were identical. We hadn’t cheated, but for some magical coincidence, we did exactly the same steps and method despite being on opposite sides of the classroom.

Friend: “Well, one of us is straight-up graded wrong. I’ll take it to the teacher to see what’s wrong.”

So he went into the classroom, talked to the teacher, and even though she had two identical exams with different grades in front of her, she maintained that it was right. So obviously, my friend went to the director, and the next day, his parents came.

Next week comes…, and the teacher is no more.

Me: “Hey, [Friend]. Where’s the teacher? What happened at last week’s meeting?”

Friend: “Oh, I thought I told you… They fired her in front of my parents, and I have a ten (A+) now.”

Me: “What?! How?”

Friend: “Well, they all sat, my mom demanded answers, the director showed her the exams and asked what happened, and she just said, ‘answers don’t matter, one is stupid and the other is smart, so the smart will get extra graded, and the stupid will be punished.””

Me: “She… called you stupid in front of her boss AND your parents?”

Friend: “Honestly, firing her was the peaceful solution. According to my mom, it was mere seconds away from first-degree murder.”

I’m a trauma surgeon, and back in the COVID days, I was covering the night shift in the emergency room at a hospital that’s basically a good two or three blocks away from the slums. 

One night, I attend to a middle-aged man with his forearm wrapped tightly in a big, thick bandage, and a film wrap over that. For those not in the medical field, something like that is an omen for disaster.

Me: “So, what happened?”

Patient: “Well, I was working with some sharp knives yesterday, and happened to cut myself a little.”

Me: *Pointing to the bandage.* “And who did this… thing?”

Patient: “Well, my neighbour did it. She knows a lot of first aid.”

Clearly, it’s not like that, as no one with any training would ever do that atrocity. They would say you should head to the emergency room straight away.

I start to unwrap the film, then the long bandage, to evaluate the amount of damage, when a familiar smell hits my nose. The room starts smelling like coffee and mint mixed together. I’m looking at myself, convinced that I must have stained myself during the day and hadn’t realised. But no, it’s not coming from me.

Then, when I finish taking the bandage off, I see it. A cut measuring about eight centimetres long, covered in a firm brown-greenish paste. Fearing an apocalyptic infection, I ask fearfully:

Me: “What… what is that thing?”

Patient: “Oh, my neighbour, she told me that applying coffee and toothpaste over the wound makes it heal.”

Cue about an hour of me washing, scrubbing, and sanitizing the wound to make sure I can prevent an (at the time) almost certain infection that would end up in amputation.

Once I finish and explain the situation and my fears to the patient, he looks at me and, in all seriousness, asks:

Patient: “So, is there any other food I could put there… to heal it faster?”