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.

One of the guests at the hotel where I was working tried to file a complaint because according to her, the staff insisted on mispronouncing the name of Florida street. Turns out we were all pronouncing it in Spanish (Flo-REE-dah) and not in English (FLO-ree-dah) so she could ask pedestrians in our Spanish-speaking country how to find the street in case she got lost on the way there.

She insisted that we pronounce it the English way, since it was to her ‘the right way’.

The worst part is that Florida is actually a Spanish word. It means ‘in bloom’.

At the veterinary hospital we frequent, you are addressed by your pet name; e.g., my husband and I are Mr./Mrs. Cherry, after our cat. When the vet is ready for you, the receptionist will call out “Mr./Mrs. [Pet]!” and you can go in for a consult.

One day, we have a fellow pet parent who enjoys making fun of people’s choice of pet names as he waits for his own, particularly of small pets with tough-guy names – Terminator, Darth Vader, etc.

The first pet is called and it’s a miniature Doberman Pinscher called Killer. The wannabe comedian does his whole schtick of making fun of Killer for having a tough name and being tiny. Nobody is amused.

The second pet is Thor, a grey toy poodle. Cue the dude and his comedy routine. By now, the whole waiting room is dreading the next client.

The next pet called is Cujo. The dude turns around and right in his face is the largest Newfoundland Shepherd I have ever seen. It’s easily the size of a young bear, for those who have never seen the breed.

Now, normally, they are super gentle, but there is something wrong with the dog’s leg because it’s bandaged. When the dude turns around in his chair to make fun of Cujo, he is greeted with a deep, warning WOOF. He turns white as a sheet and just sits there, staring at the dog and possibly hoping he won’t get eaten.

There is light laughter from the rest of the pet parents waiting in the room. We never hear a peep out of the guy again until his own dog is brought out of the grooming section of the hospital. Serves him right.

My husband and I are in the waiting room at the veterinary hospital with our cats. A lady in front of us is waiting with an obviously-pregnant dog to see another vet. She goes in first and we can overhear her conversation with the vet.

Apparently, she has two dogs from the same litter, one female, one male, and both unneutered/unspayed.

She appears to be convinced that since her male dog is from the same litter as her female dog, he could not possibly have impregnated her, since her dogs would not ‘do that.’ Instead, she is convinced that her female dog is having virgin-birth Jesus puppies.

On our way to see our own vet, we can hear the other veterinarian trying to explain to her how things work in the animal kingdom.

We can hear her wail “But they are brother and sister, they would never!” as we go into our designated office.

I feel for that poor vet.