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If You Want To Keep It Private Then Ship It Yourself

, , , , , | Right | August 31, 2021

I work at a print shop/office supply store that serves as a shipping and drop-off location. I’ve finished typing in the sender and receiver information and I’m moving onto the security features. Every shipping has this.

Me: “Would you mind giving a declared value of the contents? We need to know for insurance purposes.”

Customer: “Why do you need to know?”

Me: “For insurance purposes.”

Customer: *Hesitantly* “Let’s say… um… a thousand dollars.”

Me: “All right, and could I get a description of the contents? Just to make sure we aren’t shipping anything illegal or hazardous.”

Customer: “I kind of feel like this is an invasion of my privacy.”

Me: “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t ship it unless I know what is inside. If it’s documents, you can just say documents; you don’t need to be specific.”

Customer: *Hesitantly again* “Let’s put down… computer.”

We couldn’t ship the computer anyway because of the lithium battery, but I want to ask the third security question.

Me: “Before we can ship this out and have you pay for this label, I’ll need to see a valid ID. We use this for legal purposes and making sure customers are liable for the contents of the package.”

Customer: “Oh, you know, I left my wallet in the car. Could you ship it without my ID?”

It’s suspicious to not bring money in for something he knew he was paying for.

Me: “Sir, we can’t ship this package out unless you pay for it and show me a valid ID.”

Customer: “You know what? This was a s***ty service today. I’ll just go somewhere else for this. I hate my privacy being under attack.”

Me: “Um… okay… You can leave, then.”

I kind of wonder why he was so hesitant to say both $1,000 and a computer. It didn’t even weigh that much, and the size of the package wouldn’t have had room for a desktop or laptop.

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There Are Ways To Be Jerks In Every Language

, , , , , | Right | August 30, 2021

I’m a young woman with no piercings or tattoos. My hair is in a ponytail and I’m dressed in my work uniform. I’m working as a cashier and a young man comes up to order. He takes out a notepad, writes on it, and shows me.

Notepad: “Sorry, I’m deaf.”

Immediately, I start to sign to see if he’d rather communicate that way. The young man seems so excited. He starts telling me his order and expresses relief that someone knows how to sign. However, the next thing he asks leaves me in shock, and he rushes out of the store without his food. My coworker notices my disgust.

Coworker: “What was that about?”

Me: “He asked where to get cocaine, as I looked the ‘type.’”

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Watch Out For The Weirdness That Lies Beyond The Garden

, , , , , | Friendly | August 29, 2021

I’m sweeping up some clippings after an afternoon of gardening outside the small front of my house.

A man and two women stroll past, talking jovially, but I can’t understand what they say. Weirdly, they stop a few feet from me. The guy stares at me and then clicks fingers at me.

Man: “What is that?”

He points at me.

Me: “What is what?”

Woman #1: “The watch — what is it?”

Me: “It’s a watch; tells the time.”

I go back to sweeping.

Man: “Let me see.”

He snaps his finger and reaches out his hand.

Me: “Nope.”

I pick up my tools and walk back to the house.

Woman #1: “You come back here! We want to know where you got that from.”

Me: *Lying* “A watch shop. What is it to you?”

Woman #2: “People around here, so rude.”

Me: “Please and thank you will get you far ‘around here.’”

I chalk it down to rudeness, maybe a failed robbery attempt. I put it out of my mind, and I don’t see them around for a few days.

Then, I get a note through my door.

Note: “I want to buy your watch, £5. Not worth any more than that.”

It wasn’t until I checked the local social media pages that I discovered that these three had been approaching people all over the neighbourhood, poking around people’s open garages, and looking in the back of cars. They’d been looking to rip people off, lying about the value of things and trying to buy cheap.

It turns out that they did me a favour in a way; I got the watch valued and it was worth way more than I thought. I still have it, but I don’t wear it to do the gardening anymore!

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Letting The Cat Out Of The Bag… And Into Your Apartment

, , , | Right | CREDIT: big_cereal | August 28, 2021

I work at an inbound call center for real estate-related stuff. It’s 2018, after hours at around 7:00 pm. Two of us are in the office on shift — the current shift supervisor and me — and the third operator, [Coworker], working their shift from home.

Anyways, I notice that [Coworker] has been on a call for over fifteen minutes. A fifteen-minute call is incredibly rare for our call center; usually, anything beyond a five-minute call is considered long for us. I’m wondering what the heck is going on, but of course, I can’t tell because [Coworker] is taking the call from their home and not in our office, so I can’t overhear it.

But then, [Coworker] calls [Supervisor] and explains to them that they’re dealing with a very difficult and delusional woman, and she wants to speak with a supervisor.

[Supervisor] takes over the call and is greeted by a very angry lady who’s just about at her limit.

Supervisor: “This is [Supervisor] from [Business]; how can I help you?”

Caller: “I live at [apartment address], and there’s a cat in here!”

Supervisor: “There’s a cat in your home?”

Caller: “Yes. I was out and now I’m back home and there’s a cat in my apartment. Who was in here?!”

Callers often think that our call center is the real estate or property management, but our call center is actually a middleman that takes messages for busy real estate companies and agents and passes them along.

Supervisor: “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure who would’ve been in your apartment. I’ll need to pass along a message to [Property Management Company], and they’ll need to give you a call back. May I please have your name and phone number?”

Caller: “I’m not giving you s***! I want to know who was in my apartment! Somebody broke in and left their cat in here!”

Supervisor: “Ma’am, if someone broke into your apartment, you should call 911.”

The caller makes some confused, angry noises.

Supervisor: “This is just the call center for [Property Management Company]. As I mentioned, I would have to send a message to them for them to give you a call back. Maybe they’d know who was in your apartment.”

Caller: “I just need to know who was in my apartment and whose d*** cat this is!”

Supervisor: “Are you missing anything? Does it look like your door was broken into?”

Caller: “No, nothing is missing. And nothing is wrong with my door!”

Supervisor: “Did you have any open windows while you were out?”

Caller: “Yes.”

Supervisor: “It’s entirely possible that the cat could’ve came in through your window.”

Caller: “No! That’s ridiculous! Somebody was in my apartment!!”

Supervisor: “Did the cat pass by your feet as you were walking through the door?”

Caller: “Somebody broke into my apartment, and I need to know who! If you aren’t going to help me, I’m filing a complaint against you and [Coworker]!”

Supervisor: “Call 911. If someone breaks into your home, you call the police, not a real estate company.”

[Supervisor] is trying not to laugh but it’s getting hard to contain it and the caller hears.

Caller: “Somebody broke into my apartment and you’re laughing?! Say goodbye to your job! I’m filing a complaint.” *Hangs up*

I’ve worked in that call center for four years to this date, and while there have been some pretty crazy calls while I’ve been working there, this one takes the cake. However, I still can’t imagine what those fifteen minutes of h*** must’ve been like for [Coworker] before [Supervisor] took over.

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How To Break A Principal

, , , , , , , , | Learning | August 28, 2021

Many years ago, my school system separated sixth, seventh, and eighth grades each into their own schools. The eighth-grade principal was still committed to maintaining the tradition of middle-school grades having the ridiculous and very specific school-system-wide dress code unforgivingly enforced upon them (and only them).

Early in the first full week of school, the principal announced that he was sick of students saying they didn’t know something was forbidden by the dress code that was in the handbooks he hadn’t given us yet. Because of this, we were to have an assembly where we’d be given the handbook as we walked in and he’d read the entire student handbook to us as we followed along, so we’d have no excuse.

He was so in control that, after we were seated, the other adults would leave. After all, since the bleachers couldn’t hold us all, it’d only be half the grade at a time — boys on the first day, girls on the second. Reading to the boys went just as planned, but on day two…

The principal had droned on through the handbook and was just getting started on the several pages devoted to the dress code.

“Sleeves must be no less than two inches wide. Students may not wear shirts or dresses in the style of tank tops, halter tops, or spaghetti straps. Students may not wear clothes, such as T-shirts, that display profanity or promote substances such as alcohol, tobacco, or any other illicit substance. All clothing must be hemmed and intact. Students may not wear clothes…”

We turned the page. The principal didn’t. He paused, longer and longer. We waited anxiously for him to go on — make a joke, retroactively ignore it, anything.

His eyes widened all, deer-in-the-headlights, as he started staring into the middle distance.

Please, man, clear your throat, cough, something. Don’t leave us here, we silently begged with small, excusable hand motions and urgent faces.

His jaw slowly dropped and his lips started quivering.

For the love of God, man! Bigger gestures, desperate faces.

The principal stood there, transfixed.

There was no changing it, so we gave up. Some of us started counting the seconds. How long could this go on? We all knew what the next words were supposed to be, but that didn’t change what happened — the words that came out of his mouth — and, by not continuing, he left us stuck, too. We resisted as long as we could.

Did the principal…

Five seconds. Scattered murmuring in the crowd. “Did he mean it?” “Couldn’t have.” “Yeah, but still…”

…just say that…

Ten seconds. Someone laughed and was quieted.

…we have to…

Fifteen seconds. A girl coughed from the stress.

…come to school…

Twenty seconds. Collective gulp.

…naked?!

Twenty-five seconds after the principal last changed — to say nothing of when he last made a sound — we couldn’t take it anymore and the gym of 250 thirteen-year-old girls burst into uncontrollable laughter.

The principal stood there like a terrified statue for several more minutes as we continued laughing. We couldn’t help it; we’d try to get a hold of ourselves but glance up at this art piece of a petrified man and find ourselves laughing harder than when we’d started. After a while, the principal went from “freeze” to “flight” and darted out of the gym, leaving us laughing girls unsupervised.

The whole lot of us laughed together for several minutes. It took another several minutes for spurts of laughter not to spread across the whole group. We had never considered that a school official might tell us we must go nude before abandoning us. But the laughter faded, scattered bursts lessened, and we went to quietly chatting with whoever happened to be around. We whispered about the principal, the page-break-o’-doom, and his eventual bolting, and began to talk about other things, waiting for the vice-principal to show up or the principal to return.

Eventually, word about the time started spreading: we’d been adult-less for over half an hour and we’d been gone longer than the boys were the previous day, yet nobody had come for us. We’d only been in that school a few days; we had no idea who we could go to when the principal flaked. We collectively decided the best time and way to leave — slowly, not long before the next bell to change classes — and that we should be super-good because this was bad enough without giving any reason for people to think we’d use this to break rules.

With five minutes to go, a teacher popped her head in and looked around.

“Where’s [Principal]?”

The room threw up its hands in a collective shrug. The cluster of girls nearest that door became our speakers. They told the teacher how long we’d been alone, that it all started because of an awkward page-break and failure to go on, and that none of us could talk about a further explanation. Everyone agreed. The teacher got some pencils and paper for us to write anonymous accounts if we wanted while school employees searched for the principal.

Ten minutes later, the principal shuffled in with downcast eyes, quickly read the rest of the handbook in a robotic monotone, and shuffled back out, never looking up. The teacher who’d come in earlier passed around a box to collect our consistent accounts of what happened and gave us excuses for being late as we left.

It was an awkward (but unifying) couple of weeks for us girls, nothing worse, as we never had to say anything more than we wanted to. But the principal… The display of power he’d intended instead led to him being caught in the worst page-break and led to all the girls in the school laughing their heads off, toward him, if not precisely at him. The man broke. It was weeks before he’d interact with a female student, and even then, he couldn’t do it empty-handed — he needed a school-office version of a blankie for this scary task — and he didn’t look a girl in the eye the whole first semester. Pitiable and also creepy. Creepier than the mistake that led to it all.

Thus ends the story of how hubris, a page-break, and inability to recover from a verbal flub broke a principal and the degree to which this brokenness prevented him from doing his job. What this broken man did to regain a sense of more and more power and the interesting places that led is another tale.

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