It’s Not The Postman Going Postal Today

, , , , , | Working | June 15, 2018

(A fellow I used to know had a bit of a feud going on with some members of his family at one point. What they were doing was repeatedly going to the post office and redirecting his mail, which, of course, was illegal. When he went to the post office to fix it, they wouldn’t do anything to fix the problem and even allowed it to happen again. He was at his wits’ end, so I coached him on how to fix the problem with the post office. First, I coached him on the importance of only doing it when there were a lot of people in there — an audience if you will. Here is the process I gave him.)

Postal Worker: “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

Friend: “Good morning.” *drops phone book on counter and open to a random page* “This person, here: I want their mail redirected to—” *flips phone book to another random page* “—this address, here.” *flips to another page* “And this person, here—” *again flipping page* “I want it sent here.”

Postal Worker: *aghast* “SIR! I can’t allow you to redirect other people’s mail! It isn’t legal!”

Friend: *loudly* “Why not? You’ve let other people do it to me four times in the last month. I should be able to screw other people over, too!”

(Other people waiting in line started to murmur. The upshot was that the station master was called to the front, and his mail was set up requiring picture ID to be presented before his mail could be redirected, thereby ending the problem.)

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Teaching Manners To Adults Means Something Went Wrong

, , , , , | Friendly | June 15, 2018

(I’m standing in the queue at a popular supermarket chain. It’s busy, and I’ve got my four-year-old daughter with me in her pushchair. She’s clutching a pack of kids drinks I’m about to buy her, and she asks me if she can have one, to which I reply, “Wait until we’ve paid for them,” which she accepts and goes back to sitting there quietly. Her pushchair is a special-needs one, so it takes up more room than the average pushchair, and as we are backing up against one of the shelves and there are a fair few people behind me, I leave a small gap in front of me so people can get through. Then, a woman comes and stands in the gap in front of me, and the following exchange happens:)

Me: “Excuse me, the queue is back here.”

Customer: *ignores me*

Me: “Hey, I’m talking to you, woman in the green t-shirt who is pretending she can’t hear me.”

Customer: *turning round* “Oh, I’ve only got one thing and I’ve got to get back to work. Let me go in front of you.” *I only have two things myself*

Me: “Here’s the thing. I’ve just been telling my daughter that she needs to be patient until she can have her drink because we haven’t paid for them yet, and she’s been sitting here quietly waiting. If I let you go in front of me, what kind of message does that send her?”

Customer: “Well, I’m not moving. What are you going to do about it?”

Me: *loudly* “Well, there’s nothing I can do, if you are okay with having worse manners than a four-year-old.”

(At this point everyone in the queue was staring at her and giving her dirty looks. She looked embarrassed and slumped off to the back of the queue, muttering to herself.)

Pay Up Or Lock Up

, , , , , | Right | June 14, 2018

(This happens to a coworker of mine, in a rather pricey restaurant. The way the system works, the waitresses collect all money from patrons, and settle up with the office at the end of the night. Whatever is left is the waitress’s tips. So, if someone runs out on the tab, the waitress takes the shortage, not the restaurant. Four teenagers come in, order rather pricey meals, and run out on the tab. The waitress runs out to the parking lot, and runs behind their car trying to flag them down as they laugh and wave and drive off. The waitress gets a description of the car and calls the police. Fifteen minutes later, the local sheriff arrives with the kids in tow.)

Sheriff: “All right, what’s going on?”

Kids: “Oh, it was an accident! We totally forgot! We are sorry!”

Sheriff: “Yep, just a little communication problem. Happens all the time. What do they owe, miss?”

Waitress: “They owe [four times the amount of the actual check].”

Kids: “No way! We only owe [original amount].”

Waitress: “I added a service charge for the inconvenience, and for the pain and suffering I’ve endured.”

Sheriff: “Well, kids, that seems reasonable to me, but you don’t have to pay. We’ll just go down to the station and talk it over down there.”

(The kids decided to pay.)

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Put Your Football In Your Mouth

, , , , , , | Working | June 14, 2018

(I’m a female in my mid-twenties, and have just started a new job. One of the upper managers, who is in his early sixties, has come over to my desk to introduce himself. Somehow we get on the subject of football. I’ve been watching football with my dad since I was ten.)

Manager: “You watch football?”

Me: “Yep! My favorite team is [Hometown Team].”

Manager: “So, if you know football, tell me about [My Team’s Quarterback]. What do you think of him?”

(This happened several times at my previous job; guys don’t believe that a girl can like football. I feel an evil grin spread across my face.)

Me: “Well, I think he should stop throwing to [Wide Receiver] in triple coverage. That’s just asking for an interception! We’ve got so many great wide receivers, and he never uses them. Maybe his judgement has been clouded by the number of hits he’s taken. I guess that’s not his fault. The offensive line gets overrun by opposing defenses on every play. But I don’t want to talk about our offensive line. It’s the worst.”

(The manager is staring at me, open-mouthed.)

Manager: “Um, hmm. I, uh, don’t actually know that much about football. So, I guess I can’t comment.” *walks away*

(I told my dad the story a couple days later. He got a good laugh out of it.)

Their Biggest Handicap Is Themself

, , , , , , , | Friendly | June 13, 2018

(My genetic disability makes any form of physical activity, even just walking, difficult. Most days I can get around in short bursts of energy and willpower, but I do have a handicap parking pass for “bad days” or “flare-ups.” When I go to pick up a prescription at my local pharmacy, I take the farthest handicap spot, still trying to be considerate of others while recognizing my limitations. My mother comes along because I was just released from the hospital a few hours ago. A woman sees me get out of my car and shouts:)

Woman: “Hey! You ain’t handicapped! Hey! B****, you ain’t handicapped!”

Me: *to my mother* “Just walk.”

(The woman approaches us directly before we reach the crosswalk. She looks us both over and crosses her arms.)

Woman: “You don’t look handicapped.”

Mom: “Well, you don’t look like a dumb c***, but I guess we’re both wrong.”

(The woman stands there, dumbfounded, before stalking ahead of us into the store. I’ve never heard my mother say so much as, “d***,” so I am probably more shocked than the other woman.)

Me: “Mom! What?! What just happened?!”

Mom: “Nobody has the right to talk to you like that.”

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