Unfiltered Story #196545

, , , | Unfiltered | June 14, 2020

(I was at an anime convention, my first ever. While we were enjoying the event I over heard this)
Young lady: mom I want to get some yaoi (gay material usually of an erotic nature hailing from Japan.)
Mother: what’s yaoi?
Vendor: it’s gay anime porn.
Mother: no.
( I still get a chuckle telling this story

It’s Pretty Clear Who The “Bad Guy” Is

, , , , , , | Related | May 12, 2020

For the record, I still don’t know if I’m the good or the bad guy in this story. While I’m proud of myself for finally speaking my mind, I recognize that my actions were incredibly unprofessional.

Some background is required. Several years ago, I was part of a group of friends who met at [Person #1]’s house to play board games once a week. After several months with this group, I was let in on the Big Secret: [Person #1] was cheating on his wife with [Person #2]. I was let in on this secret in order for [Person #1] and [Person #2] to be able to act like a couple in front of the group of friends away from [Person #1]’s wife and discuss their relationship without having to hide the affair around the group.

The expectation was that I would keep the Big Secret. I was incredibly uncomfortable with this arrangement; I hadn’t asked for the information and did not want it. I think affairs are horrible and I felt terrible for [Person #1]’s wife. Things went sour shortly afterward, and I ended up leaving the group feeling extremely bitter. I should point out, however, that I never gave up the Big Secret.

Fast forward to this year. I work for an internationally-known gaming convention at the front desk, and this year I am taking time cards as the convention comes to a close. With this convention, employees go by pseudonyms instead of our real names. Someone I vaguely recognize hands me their time card. He looks at me and as I start to realize who it is, he says, “Do you remember me?” Just as I figure out who he is, he says, “You used to come over to my house to play board games.”

Yes, it is [Person #1]. I reply with, “And you’re cheating on your wife.” It just flies out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying. He grows cold, says, “Yes, I am,” and walks off.

I’ve already handed the time card to my immediate supervisor, so I ask her to rifle through the cards. She pulls one out and reads his real name, and I start cursing. I start imagining all the different kinds of trouble I’m going to get in for being so rude to a coworker. I explain everything to my supervisor, and she advises me to walk around the expo hall for the next hour to calm down. I do as she recommends, and when I come back, I talk to the manager of all of the convention employees.

I explain to the manager my shared history with [Person #1], and before I can finish telling her what happened an hour earlier, she starts laughing! She says she finds the whole thing hilarious and that she would have done the exact same thing I did. [Person #1]’s behavior is disgusting and I have nothing to worry about. What a relief!

I go back to work with a huge weight off my shoulders. Because I went right to the top, I’m safe if [Person #1] complains to his immediate supervisor. And hey, I finally got to speak my mind!

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No Care Taken With Customers’ Feelings

, , , , , , | Working | April 27, 2020

(I’m at an anime convention. While I’m in a wheelchair, I’m still very able-bodied. I’m looking through the vendor’s hall and spot a booth selling some trinkets. I find a few I like, but don’t see a price. I spot the booth owner behind the table.)

Me: “Excuse me!”

(He looks at me and then quickly turns away.)

Me: “Sir, I have a question!”

(He turns back to me.)

Booth Owner: “No, we don’t trade. Get your caretaker.”

Me: “EXCUSE ME?!”

(A few other people around me suddenly turn to look. The owner glares at me.)

Owner: “You heard me! I’m not trading some trash for my stuff! Get your caretaker to shop for you!”

Me: “I don’t have a caretaker. Not every person who is disabled does.”

Owner: “Whatever! I don’t have to help you!”

Me: “You don’t, and you probably won’t be helping too many other people, either.” 

(I pulled out my badge. The owner read the big, bold “STAFF” lettering on it and paled. After I spoke with security, some of the con heads, and the head of the vendors, they asked the booth owner to pack up and leave. He wasn’t invited back.)

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Unfiltered Story #191763

, , | Unfiltered | April 12, 2020

We have a crafting business and sell a lot of fan-type things at comic cons. Today, we had a woman we had never met before walk up to the booth.
Customer: “Hi, but you know who I am, I’m [name neither my mom or myself have ever heard of].”
Cue our blank looks.
Customer: “You know, the Charm Lady!”
[Repeat of our blank looks]
Mom, smiling: “Oh yeah!” [like she knows what this person is talking about.]
I’m tired enough that I don’t pick up on the *pretend we know who she is* clues, so I still sit there looking blank. My husband is in the back Googling her.
She wandered off, disappointed that we had no idea who she was. My husband never could find anything about her online. At least she was friendly.

Pick A Better Habit Or It’s Your Loss

, , , , , , , | Friendly | March 28, 2020

(When my nephew is little he picks his nose until it bleeds CONSTANTLY. Nothing we nor the doctor do will stop him. Even painting his nails with medicine the doctor recommends barely helps.

One year, when he is still in this stage, my parents and I take him to the Fred Hall Sportsman Show. It’s an annual California show for people who fish, hunt, hike, and generally love the outdoors.

We’re passing a booth run by an older man who sees my nephew with his finger back up his nose despite us telling him to stop. The man walks up to my nephew holding out his right hand, revealing that his index and middle finger have been amputated at the knuckle.)

Man: “Do you know how I lost these? By picking my nose.”

(My nephew instantly took his finger out of his nose and never put it back up there. He still talks about that now that he’s in his early thirties, laughing about it. Thank you, sir, for getting him to stop picking his nose. Now, we just need to find another man with amputated fingers to talk to my great-nephew. No, not my nephew’s son — his sister’s.)

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