My name is Jose, and I live in California. I received an email from a potential client.

Client: “I am interested in one of your illustrations. I have a budget of 30 USD.”

Me: “I am truly sorry, sir, but that budget isn’t adequate for my illustration services.”

Client: “I don’t think you understood. That’s 30 dollars American, not pesos, amigo. I need that illustration done by tomorrow — in other words… pronto. Can you do it?”

Me: “Wow.”

Client: “Yeah, now you get it. That should pay for a whole month of cerveza and tacos.”

Related:
Totally Estúpido! Part 30
Totally Estúpido! Part 29
Totally Estúpido! Part 28
Totally Estúpido! Part 27
Totally Estúpido! Part 26

I am visiting my sister’s family in California. We’re Caucasian, and one of her sons married a wonderful woman who is African-American. Their two young children have different complexions; their older boy is brownish and looks more Hispanic, and their daughter looks Caucasian.

One afternoon, I go to watch my two great-niblings play soccer. I meet them and their mom at the park and watch both of their games. After playing, they both look overheated, so I offer to buy ice cream for everyone. We go to an ice cream shop, get our orders, and sit down at a table.

My nephew’s wife has to excuse herself to the restroom, so I sit there talking to my great-niblings about their games.

A nosy-looking older woman comes over to our table while their mom is still away.

Woman: “I think it’s wonderful how tolerant you’re being.”

Me: “Tolerant? Of what?”

Woman: “Letting your… granddaughter? …sit with your housekeeper’s son eating ice cream.”

I stand up and reply softly so the kids don’t hear.

Me: “First, these two are siblings — my great nephew and niece. And the woman who you call my ‘housekeeper’ is my niece. And the only thing I’m having to be tolerant of is nosy old bigots interrupting a family outing. But my tolerance has limits, so please leave us alone.”

The woman retreated, not uttering another word. Unbeknownst to me, my niece had returned while I was whispering my retort to NOW. When I turned around, she was crying. She gave me a big hug, and then we sat and ate our ice cream.

The woman was still there, but every time I looked around, she quickly looked away from us — in shame, hopefully.

Related:
And What Happens When You Assume? Part 3
And What Happens When You Assume? Part 2
And What Happens When You Assume?
Remember What Happens When You Assume
What’s That Saying About What Happens When You Assume?

Back in the 1980s, I worked in a section of the immigration department of the UK Home Office where members of the public who were foreign nationals could come and apply in person for variations to their visas.

I was on duty as a supervisor and I spotted one of my staff — a young Black man whose judgment and common sense I trusted implicitly — engaged in a conversation with a South African national. The South African had arrived in the UK some five months before — ostensibly on holiday — but now wanted to be granted permanent residence so that he could live and work here.

Colleague: *Politely and patiently* “Sir, as I have been trying to explain, you do not qualify for permanent residence in the UK. You are only on a tourist visa, and that lasts a maximum of six months with no exceptions. If you want to apply for any other kind of visa, you will be expected to leave the country no later than when your leave to enter expires a couple of weeks hence.”

Visa Applicant: “I’ve had enough of this! I want to speak to a real Englishman! Someone who knows what they’re talking about!”

I stepped forward.

Me: “Sir, I am the supervisor here, and I have heard what my colleague has told you. He is 100% correct, and all I would be able to do is reiterate what he has already said.”

Visa Applicant: “Then I want to talk to your supervisor! I demand that my application be taken seriously! Back home, I would have already been treated with the respect that I deserve!”

Me: “Very well, sir, I will accept your request as a formal application… and I am now formally refusing it. You will be liable to be deported if you do not leave the UK by the date stamped in your passport.”

He eventually gave up arguing and turned away to leave, muttering in what I assume was Afrikaans. As he began to walk away, my Black colleague — who was private-school-educated and spoke English with a cut-glass accent — called after him: 

Colleague: “Are you happy, sir, now that you’ve had it in black and white?”

CONTENT WARNING: Gun Injury (Accidental, Self-Inflicted, Non-Lethal)
 

Years and years ago, I worked in a store in a state that allows open carry. As a result, it’s common to see some customers walking around with gun holsters, almost wanting you to notice them.

The basement of our store has a small kiosk that provides antique gun appraisal service. I am working at the checkout when one of my coworkers starts having a heated conversation with her customer.

Customer: “Well, I’m not going to take gun advice from a little girl who works in a grocery store!”

Coworker: “Sir! This is not advice; this is a serious legal requirement! If you want your firearm appraised, it needs to be unloaded, including the bullet in the chamber!”

Customer: “I never had to do this before! Where’s your manager?! He’s a man, and he knows what he’s doing!”

Coworker: “Sir, I am not going to ask my opinion from my manager on something that is a clear legal requirement. Leave right now and come back with your gun safely unloaded, and then we can talk about—”

Customer: *Unholstering his gun and waving it about dangerously* “I know my rights, and—”

BAM!

There is a deafening sound that we all know too well: a gunshot. All the other customers scream and instinctually get down. I duck, but I also turn to the customer, who is now screaming at us all.

Customer: “You stupid b****! Now look what you made me do! You f****** b****!”

Yup. He’s shot himself. Not only that, he’s shot himself in the balls.

Of course, we immediately call 911, and an ambulance arrives within minutes, along with the police because… well… gunshot.

My manager explains how this idiot shot himself and provides access to the camera footage while they all try not to laugh. Between my manager, the two officers, and me, my manager comes out with:

Manager: “Well… at least he won’t be reproducing!”

Related:
Gun Control Out Of Control, Part 3
Gun Control Out Of Control, Part 2
Gun Control Out Of Control

CONTENT WARNING: Cancer

I am a young Black man working at the checkout. My hair was tied into cornrows in a complicated design last weekend for a wedding, and since it took a lot of time, pain, and money, I am keeping it in for as long as I can allow.

An older white woman and her daughter are checking out, and the older woman can’t NOT comment on my hair.

Older Woman: “Your hair looks stupid.”

Young Woman: “Mom! You can’t just say that!”

Me: “It’s okay. I happen to like it!”

Older Woman: “Boys of your type should just shave it all off. It looks neater than that wild and crazy hair you grow.”

The younger woman slams her hand onto my counter, making me look at her — really look at her — for the first time. She doesn’t look like she’s in the best of health, and she has no eyebrows.

Young Woman: “I’ve got chemo later today, but it won’t be as painful as an hour’s shopping with you!”

Mom was silent for the rest of her time there. I hope her daughter is healthier and happier!