Not Too Chicken To Confront Them

, , , , , | Working | April 3, 2018

(I find a Chinese takeout place very near to me that is inexpensive and can deliver very quickly. The second time I order, they give me deep-fried chicken balls that are slightly undercooked. I don’t think they are dangerous, and they taste fine, but they are definitely more pink in the middle than normal. I call them to report it and they give me some free soup. Pretty normal interaction. A couple weeks later, though, there is a repeat incident.)

Me: “Hi, I’m calling about the order you just delivered to [address]. The chicken balls were very undercooked; one was actually raw in the middle.”

Employee: *a very young-sounding girl* “Yes? Hello?”

Me: “This is [Chinese Takeaway], yes? I’m calling about the order to [address]. The chicken balls were undercooked.”

Employee: “You want an order?”

Me: “You just sent an order to [address], correct?”

Employee: “Oh. Yes? Problem? No arrive?”

Me: “It arrived, but the chicken balls were very undercooked.”

Employee: “Uh…”

Me:Undercooked. Raw. The chicken! The chicken was not properly cooked!”

Employee: “Wait. [Indistinct], get boss!”

(Almost a minute of silence passes.)

Employee: “Yes, hello? You cannot make problem. We [indistinct] cook the same and you always have problem.”

Me: “I’m sorry? I’m not trying to make a problem; I’m telling you that you can’t sell raw food, especially chicken!”

Employee: “Our food is fine! You always call with problem!”

(Keep in mind I have only called once before and I didn’t even ask for free food; they just offered it.)

Employee: “We are not giving you anything!”

Me: “I’m not asking for anything! I can put these in my oven to finish cooking! But you cannot give people raw food!”

Employee: *click*

(I call back.)

Employee: *the same girl* “Hello?”

Me: “Yes, it’s me again. I’m not trying to get free food. But I need you to acknowledge that your chicken was raw. You could kill someone.”

Employee: “Stop making problem! If you don’t like how we make, don’t order!”

Me: “You know it’s illegal to sell undercooked chicken, don’t you?”

Employee: “Don’t order here again!” *click*

(I report them to the Food Standards Agency. The best part? Not three days later, I get a phone call.)

Government Worker: “Hello, is this [My Name]?”

Me: “Yes, that’s me.”

Government Worker: “This is [My Name] with the FSA. I’m just calling about your report about [Chinese Takeaway]. Could I ask you a few things?”

Me: “Oh! Of course.”

(She confirms that what I wrote is about the correct place, and asks for the whole story, which I give her.)

Government Worker: “You should know that you’re not the only person to report this place. We’ve already given them a warning in the past, so now we’re probably going to have to inspect them in person. That usually scares them into doing things properly, but I wouldn’t order from them again, in any case, if I were you. I could give you a call to let you know if and when we take action, and the outcome?”

(I assured her that wasn’t necessary. It was just nice to know that when you report bad businesses, sometimes the authorities actually take notice.)

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Barking About Parking

, , , , , | Friendly | April 3, 2018

(I am picking up my girlfriend from her piano lesson. As I pull up to her piano teacher’s house, the car in the driveway next door starts reversing out into the street. Not wanting to get in the car’s way, I pull over to the side of the road and put the car in park. I text my girlfriend that I am here and sit down with the radio on, playing a game on my phone. After about a minute, I hear a knocking on my car window. I look out, and the car that pulled out before has reversed next to me, and a middle-aged woman has got out and is knocking on my window. I open the door a bit.)

Me: “Hi! What’s up?”

Woman: *screaming* “YOU CAN’T PARK HERE! THIS STREET IS NO PARKING!”

Me: *taken aback* “It’s okay; I’m just picking up my girlfriend.”

Woman: “WHICH HOUSE DOES SHE LIVE IN?”

(I point.)

Woman: “WELL, THEN, YOU SHOULD PARK IN THE DRIVEWAY!”

Me: “Okay.”

(She then jumps into her car and peels off down the street without another word. I check my phone; I have been stopped less than a minute at this point. I see that my girlfriend has texted me that she is coming out. Not thirty seconds later, the woman’s car comes tearing down the street at twice the speed limit, in reverse! She drives her car into the piano teacher’s driveway — blocking me off — leaps out of her car, runs up to the piano teacher’s door, and starts knocking furiously. Once the piano teacher opens the door, the woman starts screaming and cussing, mostly unintelligibly, about how I am parked illegally. By this time, I have pulled off the street into the only driveway available to me: the woman’s driveway. She sees me there, and her eyes almost bulge out of their sockets.)

Woman: “HE WASN’T PARKED THERE BEFORE! HE WAS PARKED ON THE STREET!”

Me: “I had to park here; you blocked off the driveway.”

Woman: “YOU CAN’T PARK ON THE STREET! YOU CAN’T PARK HERE! WHY DON’T YOU GO AWAY?!”

Me: *fed up* “You need to leave, right now, or I am going to call the police.”

(At that, she jumps back into her car and squeals off. My girlfriend and her piano teacher come out, looking shocked.)

Girlfriend: “What the heck was all that about? I couldn’t make sense of any of her screaming.”

Piano Teacher: “Yeah, she’s nuts. Luckily, she is almost never home. Plus, she always has her guests park on the street, sometimes for days at a time.”

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Using A Different Rule Of Thumb

, , , , | Right | April 3, 2018

(A female customer orders three six-foot-long boards. When she leaves, she looks happy with her purchase. She returns around an hour later, very angry, hitting her boards across the doorway.)

Customer: “DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO MEASURE PROPERLY, DUMBA**?”

Me: “What’s the problem, ma’am?”

Customer: “I ordered three six-foot-long boards for my shelving, not three twelve-foot-long boards! I want a d*** refund and my new boards free!”

(I look at the boards. There is no way they could be twelve feet long.)

Me: “These look like they’re the correct length.”

Customer: “NO, THEY’RE NOT, YOU LITTLE S***. LOOK!”

(She pulls out a smartphone and opens a photo of a ruler in her gallery. She slides the phone across the board, counting.)

Customer: “SEE? SEE? IT’S DOUBLE WHAT I ASKED FOR!”

Me: “…”

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Left You Feeling Cold(sore)

, , , , , | Healthy | April 3, 2018

(I’ve suffered from cold sores for about six years, and normally I only get two or three a year. Over the last six months, I have had them repeatedly, one after the other, so I decide to go to my doctor. I make an appointment, but I have to wait three weeks for it — this is a pretty normal wait time for an appointment in my area.)

Me: “I read on the NHS website that if cold sores get this bad and persistent, there’s a medication that can help to treat it.”

Doctor #1: “Why do you think you need a prescription medicine? That’s pretty drastic.”

Me: “I’ve had non-stop cold sores for six months, and that isn’t normal. The creams from the pharmacy aren’t working.”

Doctor #1: “Yes, but lots of things cause cold sores. Sunlight, poor diet, being on your period.”

Me: “Well, I haven’t been on my period for six straight months! My diet hasn’t changed, and it’s winter, so I haven’t been in the sun.”

Doctor #1: “It could be a response to an infection. I’ll send you for a blood test, but I don’t want to give you tablets for something so minor.”

(It takes a week to get the paperwork for the blood test — it has to be done at the hospital — a week for me to be able to get my blood tested, and another week before the results come back. I then have to wait another two weeks to see my doctor to discuss the results.)

Doctor #1: “Your tests showed elevated white blood cells, which is a sign of infection. But I think it’s a false positive, so I’ll send you for another blood test.”

Me: “What makes you think it’s false? You said it could be an infection.”

Doctor #1: “Well, I think you did have an infection, but it’s gone now. I’ll send you for another one and compare the results.”

(Cue ANOTHER TWO weeks of waiting for the blood test and test results.)

Receptionist: “The doctor says your blood test came back normal and he doesn’t need to see you. He says there’s nothing he can do.”

Me: “What?! That’s not right! He hasn’t done anything!”

Receptionist: *quietly speaking to me* “I recommend you see another doctor. They can look at your results and you can get a second opinion.”

(I have to wait ANOTHER THREE weeks to see a second doctor, so by this time it’s been more than eight months of cold sores.)

Doctor #2: “”You’ve had cold sores for EIGHT MONTHS?!”

Me: “It’s been Hell; I’ve had either a sore, a scab, or a scar on my face this whole time. The creams aren’t working, I’ve tried every home remedy on Google, and I don’t know what else to do.”

Doctor #2: “It could be a sign of something serious, but it could be nothing. Let’s have a look at your test results… Are you taking iron?”

Me: “No, why?”

Doctor #2: “Didn’t the other doctor say anything about your iron levels?!”

Me: “He said my blood was normal.”

Doctor #2: “It’s most certainly not normal! You have extremely low iron levels, in both sets of results. There’s a proven link between low iron and mouth sores. You just need to take an iron supplement. And I’ll give you a prescription for the cold sores, so they’ll clear up in a week or less. Your white blood cell count is still up, so I think you may need antibiotics, too.”

(Since I’ve been taking iron, I hardly have cold sores at all. And my infection cleared up, but the doctor said if it hadn’t, it could have developed into sepsis, which can be fatal. Now, whenever I make a doctor’s appointment I specifically say, “Any doctor other than [Doctor #1],” and from what the receptionist has since told me, lots of patients do the same.)

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Meeting Aunt Petunia

, , , , , | Friendly | April 2, 2018

(I live in downtown, about two blocks away from our county fairgrounds. It’s Saturday night during a fair, and I have my windows open to let in the cooler air. I’m watching a Harry Potter movie. With my window open, you can see the television from the street. There’s a knock on my door. I open it to see a boy of about ten standing there.)

Me: “Um… Hello.”

Boy: “I want to watch the movie! Mom says to stay here while she goes out.”

Me: “Sorry, kid. I don’t know you. You need to go back to your mom.”

Boy: *pouts but leaves*

(Ten minutes later, there’s a pounding on my door.)

Mom: “I TOLD HIM HE COULD WATCH YOUR MOVIE! Just let him hang out here while I visit the bars! It’ll only be a couple hours.”

Me: “Lady, I don’t know you people, and you don’t know me. How do you know I’m not a child sex offender? If you want a free babysitter, call a friend or family member.”

Mom: “NO! It’s tourist season, and you all have to make us feel at home! Now, do your part and let him in!”

Me: “Yeah… No. Get out of here before I take your picture and send it to the cops. We’re a small town. They love hearing about neglected kids.”

(She scowled at me but finally left. The boy was still whining about wanting to watch my movie. There a lot of sickos out there, people! Keep an eye on your kids during big events.)

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