Content Warning: Gun-Related Injury

This takes place back around 2008. In Iowa, quite a few state parks have shooting ranges that are completely free and just have posted rules. As a rule, everyone is responsible for making sure the range is safe and clean.

I have just bought a new gun and want to sight it in to my shooting style. I’m a left-handed shooter but right-eye dominant.

When I get to the range, there are the usual people there, including the brass thief, but he’s a story for another time. The far left lane is open.

I move my stuff to the table and start setting up my sled and other equipment.

To the right of my lane is a father and son shooting a tiny bolt action .22. The gun is one of those that takes a key to function every time. The kid is maybe ten years old and seems to know how to use the rifle because he is loading .22 shorts, using the key to reload, and shooting again. He is being safe and keeping it pointed downrange. His dad is giving pointers and overall is a good mentor.

I load and shoot.

Then, I wait for the range to clear and for people to reset targets.

The dad next to me walks away and leaves the kid to shoot.

I pick up my rifle and start to wipe the barrel. I’m planning on waiting for the barrel to cool, shoot, wait, and so on.

I hear the kid fumbling with the keys and getting frustrated

Pop! I just got punched in the leg. It hurts but in a weird way. The kid squeaks a “sorry” and I take inventory. I feel my leg and find the hole. It isn’t even bleeding yet, but still, my brain is going, “Holy f***, f***, s***, f***, I just got shot!”

I look for the dad and he’s fiddling with fishing equipment in the back of his truck.

Me: “Excuse me, sir—”

Man: *Interrupting* “My son is allowed to shoot and we aren’t moving.”

Me: “Yes, sir, but the issue is that he just shot me!”

Man: *Laughing* “No, he didn’t.”

I take my hand off my leg and show him as, by now, it has started to bleed.

Man: “You must have shot yourself. My son has been shooting since he could walk!”

Me: “Accidents happen. I’m not upset. I just need insurance information for the ranger and paramedics as I need to call 911.”

Man: “Look, I’ll give you $100 to just leave and say it was an accident.”

Me: “No.”

I call 911.

Other people on the range start to gather and some go find a park ranger.

The dad keeps arguing.

Man: “My son couldn’t have shot you. He doesn’t know how to load the gun. And if he did, it was because you were downrange.”

Kid: “Yeah, I do, Dad; you showed me. I did shoot him. It was an accident!”

The dad starts to panic and starts tossing everything into the truck in a scramble to get away. Before he can, another shooter grabs the man’s keys from the table.

The guy gets more and more upset as I sit there with my pinky stuffed in a brand new hole.

Eventually, the ranger gets there and everyone starts yelling their side of what happened. The ranger calms everyone down as the police arrive and start sorting through everything.

Me: “The kid shot me by accident. His dad was freaking out and tried to leave, but another person has his keys.”

They summon an ambulance and they look me over.

The officers handcuff the dad.

Me: “Wait, he didn’t do any harm. I’m not pressing charges.”

The officers explained that he was a felon and thus not allowed to be around guns anyway.

I was taken away, and they removed the bullet. There was no major harm done, but it did chip bone.

I work in the deli and also handle catering orders at a supermarket. A woman ordered a fruit tray from us, and unfortunately, it wasn’t ready when she came to pick it up. The woman was not happy about it and started complaining to her teenage daughter.

I go over to hurry the fruit guy along, and after a few minutes, I return with the lady’s tray. After I hand it to her, she stares at it for a second.

Customer: “This is the wrong price.”

Me: “What is it priced at?”

She does not respond, instead holding the price tag like a dead fish. I have terrible vision, so I can’t read the tag from where I am standing, so after asking her three or four times, I reach out and gingerly take it from her hand.

Me: “Oh, yes, I see it’s priced wrong. Let me go get a new tag.”

Her daughter then whines:

Customer’s Daughter: “You didn’t have to do that. That’s rude.”

I am confused but just ignore her to go get the other tag. I come back with the correct price and stick it onto the box.

Me: “There you go! Have a great day!”

Customer: “Where’s my fruit tray?”

Me: “Excuse me, ma’am? What do you mean? It’s in your cart.”

Customer: “No. This isn’t mine. You gave mine to someone else.”

I am done. We are busy and I have a lot to do.

Me: “I don’t know what to say, ma’am. I gave you your tray. I have to go now. Have a good day.”

I turn and walk back to the cooler, at which point I hear:

Customer: “Wait! I’m not done talking to you!”

I look back and see her following me. As I walk into the cooler, I think I am safe. Wrong. This woman follows me into the walk-in cooler. Now I am panicking. I yell.

Me: “Get away from me!”

As I push through the carts and other things in the cooler, I hear my manager yell:

Manager: “Ma’am! You’re not allowed in there!”

I ran out the other side of the cooler and hid in the prep area until they left!

There was a woman who worked at my station. She was a filthy and disgusting person, both physically and in personality.

One day on the TV in the office, they were talking about an LGBT+ event going on.

Coworker: “Oh, those people are sick and disgusting. Why can’t they keep to themselves?”

THEN, she had the nerve to smile, look at me, and say:

Coworker: “Am I right?”

I had just gotten a “Legalize Gay” shirt like two days before, so I made a point to wear it to work the next day. [Coworker] saw me in that shirt and her face dropped. I made a point to walk into my captain’s office before changing into my uniform to file a formal complaint against this woman for her discriminatory comments.

She never said anything else to me after that day.

Our now extinct bookstore used to have these big black mesh shopping bags that customers could use to carry large purchases. They had the store name on the sides and a little tag saying, “Made In [Country].” None of them had price tags. Most of them were shop-worn. And we had to intervene a number of times when owners of yappy little dogs tried roaming the store with their precious little pee bags stuffed inside. No, lady, mesh bags do NOT conceal your snarling, yapping, squirming little “angel.”

Lady: “What do you mean, he can’t come inside?! It’s 100 degrees out!”

Manager: “Ma’am, we handle food in our café, and it is unsanitary to have any animal in the store.”

Lady: “I don’t plan on going into the café! I don’t understand why my dog is banned if it doesn’t go anywhere near the food!”

Manager: “Because whether you go into the café or not, it’s part of the store and therefore the ban on animals extends to the rest of the building.”

Lady: “Well then, he’s a service animal, and therefore it’s illegal to refuse him entry! So there!”

Manager: “I doubt that very much considering how misbehaved he’s been so far.”

A little girl passes by, minding her own business and aiming for some point past the scene. She is not running, screaming in a shrill voice, or taking any notice at all of the situation, but instead she is calmly rummaging through her small plastic purse to see if she can afford her selection.

It is at this point that the dog takes exception to the situation and launches itself half out of the black mesh carry bag, yapping and snarling and snapping violently at the very startled little girl, who begins crying.

Manager: “Ma’am, please control your dog and remove it from the premises.”

Lady: “HOW DARE YOU?!”

She catches the dog before it wiggles free of the bag to have a go at the child.

Lady: “You provoked my precious, sweet little Muffin, didn’t you?”

A fellow employee intercedes and gently pries the terrified, sobbing girl away from the shelf that she’s backed up against, risking being bitten by the little beast in an effort to put some distance between her and the situation.

Manager: “Ma’am, that girl was just walking by. Your dog is the aggressor. I suggest you remove that animal before we report it as being vicious for its unprovoked attack.”

The dog stops snarling and snapping and settles for incessant, shrill yapping.

Lady: “F*** you!” *Bark! Bark! Bark!* “My precious little—” *Yap! Yap! Yap!* “—Muffin is the—” *Bark! Bark!* “—spirit of gentility! That little b****—” *Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap!* “—provoked him somehow!”

Ironically, security escorted her off the premises, not because we called them, but because the dog’s shrill incessant yapping could be heard OUTSIDE by the passing security guard, who was well aware of our no-dogs policy.

The little girl was ultimately all right and we managed to calm her down with a cup of hot chocolate from the café (on the house). I can only imagine that the dog would have become a bony little football if Momma Bear had come onto the scene during the situation.

I worked in a store during a big console launch. Our store had only gotten enough to fulfill preorders, so they were all locked in the office, bagged, with the customer’s details taped to them so that the customers’ copies of the paperwork could be matched up to their orders. All staff attended a training where this was made very clear, and they were reminded about it afterward.

A customer asked for a console.

Cashier: “I’ll go grab you one.”

I stopped them and turned to the customer.

Me: “Can I see your preorder slip?”

Customer: “Oh, I didn’t preorder it.”

Cashier: “It’s fine; we’ve got plenty.”

Me: “No, we don’t.”

Cashier: “Yeah, there’s loads in the office. I’ve already sold six!”

They’d been asking other managers for access to the office. Those managers were assuming no one could be that stupid. They assumed wrong; the cashier was tearing the paperwork off and binning it.