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“Send Me A Sign, Lord!” “You Gotta Read ‘Em, Buddy!”

, , , , , , , , | Friendly | October 12, 2024

I have a high wall around my house that is ringed with electrified razor wire and peppered with “Beware of the dogs!” signs. There are more signs on my front gate that read, “Do Not Enter!”, “Ring the bell to speak to the homeowner,” and, you got it, “Beware of the dogs!” Come within a foot of my gate, and you will hear the full-throated roar of my three Boerboel, South African mastiffs that are roughly the size of ponies. They’re sweeties, but they’re huge, no-nonsense boys who could rip you apart and leave no evidence. 

I wake up to hear a dreadful shrieking, and I run outside to find a man lying in my garden in the foetal position, hemmed in by my puppers.

Me: “What the f*** are you doing here? Can’t you read?”

Man: “I just wanted to—”

Me: “Wanted to what? Get torn apart? Leave a bloody mess on my porch? Why are you here?”

Man: “I came to bring the light of Jesus into this house!”

Me: “Seriously? Didn’t you read the signs?”

Man: “I knew I could enter because I wear the armor of Christ’s love!”

Me: “Right. Well then, I will leave you to pray on your terrible choices. Boys… watch!

My dogs immediately go into a guard position as I walk back into the house.

Man: “Waaaaaaait! Don’t leave me.”

Me: “Don’t worry. Jesus will protect you or, if you move, will probably offer you tea and sympathy when you see him.”

I then went inside, called the police, and had them come trespass him from my property. I haven’t seen him since.

The Case of the Conference Conundrum

, , , , , , , | Working | May 27, 2024

Being a scientist meant attending conferences as an occasional part of my professional life. Little did I know that one trip would take an unexpected turn and leave me questioning my sanity.

Arriving at the hotel after a two-hour flight, my colleagues and I were eager to check in and settle before the conference commenced. The process seemed straightforward enough: queue at the hotel reception, provide our names and organization, and receive our room keys after signing the pre-paid account. Then, proceed to conference registration to sign in and collect our name badges.

Having arrived slightly later than my colleagues, I approached the reception desk, anticipating a quick check-in. I simply gave the receptionist my name since my colleagues had just checked in before me. However, to my surprise, the receptionist seemed unfazed by my arrival.

Receptionist: *With a knowing smile* “Ahh, [My Name]. You are already booked into your room. Your conference registration is also already done. Everything is taken care of.”

With a wave of her hand, she called over a hotel usher, instructing me to follow him. Doubt gnawed at me, and I started to voice my concerns about not having completed the check-in process. But before I could finish my sentence, the receptionist interrupted me, assuring me that everything was indeed in order and urging me to follow the usher. The usher wasted no time and briskly led the way toward the elevators, leaving me with no choice but to hastily grab my luggage and follow in his wake.

Reaching the elevators, I found my colleagues waiting alongside me. They had already pressed the buttons for the second and third floors, but the usher had other plans. With a quick swipe of his security card, he selected the fourteenth floor — the topmost floor, adorned with red buttons indicating floors eleven to fourteen. One of my colleagues couldn’t help but jest:

Colleague: “[My Name] is so lucky; he got the penthouse suite.”

As we ascended, the last of my colleagues disembarked on the third floor, bidding me farewell with light-hearted remarks. From that point onward, it was just me and the usher, traveling to the very top.

Upon arriving at the fourteenth floor, the usher swiftly exited the elevator, briskly walking down the corridor with me following as best I could. Struggling to steady my luggage, I couldn’t help but feel perplexed. Shouldn’t the hotel usher have assisted me with my belongings? The usher then opened a set of double doors and turned back to the elevator, leaving me alone in a corridor. Shaking off the confusion, I proceeded to enter what I believed to be my penthouse room, only to be met with a shocking sight — a conference room filled with attendees listening to a presentation.

All eyes turned toward me, and I realized with a jolt that this was not my conference. A large banner displayed the words “[Large Insurance Company] Financial Conference,” confirming my suspicions. Staggering backward, I hastily closed the double doors, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. Could this be some kind of joke? Then, it dawned on me that this must be a case of mistaken identity, likely caused by a keynote speaker with the same name who was late for his presentation.

Left without a security card to operate the lift and return to the ground floor, I embarked on a short search along the corridor. Finally, I encountered a catering lady setting up a table with refreshments. Explaining my predicament, I was surprised by her calm response. She promptly contacted the catering manager, who arrived shortly after and used his security card to activate the lift, granting me access once more.

Returning to the reception desk, I recounted the bewildering turn of events to the incredulous and slightly irritated receptionist. She reluctantly asked for my full name and initials, proceeding to type several commands into her computer. Staring at the screen in disbelief, she summoned her supervisor, exclaiming:

Receptionist: “Look, there are two bookings for [My Surname] — one with initials [My Initials] and another with slightly different initials.”

Rebooking my room turned out to be a complex process, and I waited for more than ten minutes before finally receiving my room card.

With the key in hand, I realized the importance of confirming my situation before unpacking my suitcase. Seeking clarity, I inquired about the location of the registration desk for my intended conference. The receptionist simply pointed to the nearby staircase and stated:

Receptionist: “First floor.”

Determined, I hauled my suitcase up the stairs (I later realized that I could have taken the lift to the first floor) and found myself in a vast, empty area — a conference foyer devoid of activity. My colleagues were likely already in their rooms, preparing for the welcome function, and the conference staff had departed for the day.

At the staircase landing, a small round table caught my attention. It was covered with a white cloth and held scattered sheets of paper. On the topmost sheet, I read the words, “[My Conference] Attendance Register.” A sense of relief washed over me as I realized the familiar nature of the document. I quickly spotted my name, the only one without a signature, and proceeded to sign beside it.

Finally, I had arrived at the right place.

How Much To Ship You Far Away?

, , , , | Right | March 29, 2024

We have a shop in Cape Town where we get a lot of tourists who would like to ship things back to their country. No problem — we have been doing it for years — but there is a question I get asked daily that grinds my gears.

Customer: “How much does it cost to ship?”

Me: “What do you want to ship?”

Customer: “I just want to know how much shipping is.”

Me: “I need the size, weight, destination, and method of shipping; they all determine the price.” 

Pause.

Customer: “I just want to know how much shipping is.”

A Good Sign That This Manager Has Seen Some S***

, , , , , , | Right | February 13, 2024

Back in the 1990s, I used to buy spare auto parts from a scrap yard service in a suburb of Cape Town. It was one of those places where you could walk in and find a carburetor for a 1974 Renault DS, or a distributor for an old Ford, perfect if you were a broke student forced to drive busted-up jalopies.

The owner was a real character — deeply knowledgeable and extremely kind. There was a massive sign over the sales desk that read:

Sign: “Prices will be adjusted according to customer attitude.”

When I asked the owner about it, he smiled and said:

Owner: “You’ve got to let the boneheads know up front that you won’t take their s*** so that they can’t start crying when you call them on it.”

I was always impeccably polite to him and always got a fair deal, but when I heard people complain about his prices, I knew exactly what had happened.

Since When Is Your Store My Responsibility?

, , , , , , | Working | September 6, 2022

I’m at my local off-licence (liquor store) buying a few bottles. I’m in shorts, a T-shirt, and flops, so I’m very obviously a customer. A rough-looking dude sidles up to me.

Dude: “Hey, you work here?”

Me: “No, mate, just shopping.”

He looks at me suspiciously and then sloooooooowly reaches out an arm, grabs a bottle of cheap spirits, and shoves it into his shirt. He squints at me for a moment, as if to check whether I am going to do anything about it, and then sloooooooooooooowly reaches out and grabs another bottle, stuffs it into his shirt, and saunters out of the door. I pass a real employee.

Me: “That guy just walked out with two bottles.”

Employee: “What? Motherf***er! Well, what were they? You’re going to have to pay for them!”

I didn’t end up paying for them, but the manager wouldn’t let me leave until the police arrived, which took a while. The manager was then shocked when I had him charged for, among other things, gripping my arm and refusing to let me leave and common assault.