“Party” and “DMV” Are Complete Opposites

, , , , | Working | May 11, 2021

I’m almost eighteen. I need a replacement ID, so I go to the DMV. My dad comes with me since I’m still a minor.

Employee: “I see you’ll be eighteen soon. Since we’re getting you a new ID today, we can also register you to vote. Interested?”

Me: “Really? Yes, that would be great!” 

The employee smiles broadly.

Employee: “Awesome! It’s great to see a young person like you excited about voting. I just need to confirm some information first.”

He confirms my personal information and gets to the last question.

Employee: “Political party affiliation?”

My extended family is split when it comes to political views. As a result, I’ve done a lot of research on both parties and have picked the one that fits my personal beliefs the best.

Me: “[Party].”

The employee’s face falls.

Employee: “Are you sure?”

Me: “Yes.”

Employee: “You know, you can also pick Independent.”

Me: “Noted. [Party], please.”

Employee: *To my dad* “Sir, your daughter is registering as a [Party].”

Me: “Seriously?!”

My dad, who has been quietly standing off to the side, gives the employee a confused look.

Dad: “I know. She’s old enough to have her own views.”

Employee: “But—”

Me: “My views are my business. Just register me.”

Employee: “[Party] it is. You can always change it later, dear.”

Me: “Do you hassle everyone like this or just people who select [Party]?”

Employee: “Oh, look at that. You’re all set!”

I collect my new ID and all assorted documents. My dad can’t resist one final parting shot, just loud enough for the employee to hear.

Dad: “Finally, another [Party] in the family! I’m so proud.”

The employee stared at us in horror as we exited. Somehow, I was registered properly and voted in the next election with no issues.

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Enough To Make You Beet Your Head Against The Wall

, , , , , , | Working | May 10, 2021

I’m the manager of a popular fast food chain. We’ve run out of sliced beetroot, which is an ingredient on a current promotional burger. Usually, I would organise to get some from another location, but we’re in a shopping centre so I know it will be quicker to send someone to the supermarket to buy a can of it. I can’t go myself because I’m the only manager working at the moment and I can’t leave the employees and the store unattended.

I summon over a kitchen employee. I choose someone who I know has opened cans of our usual beetroot before and who I think would know his way around a supermarket.

Me: “Hey, [Employee]. Can you please go down to [Supermarket] and buy one tin of sliced beetroot? It will be in the tinned vegetable section, near tins of corn and pineapple. It will look like the normal tins of beetroot that we use but a lot smaller. Here is $10; please bring me the receipt back.”

Employee: “Okay, sure. Can I take my phone in case I need to call you?”

Me: “Yeah, sure, just call the store if you have any problems. Don’t forget: tinned vegetable aisle and bring the receipt!”

I give him $10 from the petty cash and think no more of it.

Twenty minutes later, he walks back in. The supermarket is only a two-minute walk from our store through the centre, so this should have been no more than a ten-minute round trip.

Employee: “Here you go!”

He hands me a whole beetroot, like what you’d pick from the garden. He’s obviously found it in the fresh produce section, not with the tinned food. This beetroot still has dirt on it.

Me: “Oh, no! Oh, [Employee], I’m so sorry, but this isn’t what we need. It needs to be in a metal tin, pre-sliced in its own juice. You need to look in one of the aisles for it. It comes in a tin that you use a can opener for.”

Employee: “Ohhh! I’m sorry, [My Name]. I’ll go back and swap it?”

Me: “Yes, please! Call the store if you can’t find it.”

He sets off again to the supermarket.

Another twenty minutes pass, and he walks back in holding a vacuum-sealed package of two small whole beetroots.

I burst out laughing.

Me: “[Employee], no! We need it in a can!”

I pull out my phone and look it up on the supermarket’s website.

Me: “Like this! Beetroot in a metal can. It will be with the other cans of vegetables. [Brand #1] or [brand #2].”

Employee: “Ohhhh! In a can! Okay, sure, I’ll take this back.”

Me: “Yes, please. Call me if you have any problems. Don’t forget the receipt!”

Another twenty minutes pass. He walks back in, triumphant. He hands me a tin of beetroot, and about $6 change.

Me: “Yes! You found it! Thank you! Can I have the receipt, please?”

His face falls.

Employee: “Oh. I didn’t know you needed the receipt so I chucked it out. Is it really important?”

The receipt is needed so I can balance the petty cash and explain where that $4 went.  

Me: “Yes! I need the receipt! This beetroot is right but I need a receipt! Can you please go and get it? You’ll need to ask them to print it for you again.”

This poor boy sets off again to the supermarket. At this point, I’m really regretting my decisions and wondering how this went so wrong.

Twenty minutes later, he walks back in with the receipt. A full eighty minutes have passed since I first sent him to the supermarket.

Me: “Thank you! This is what I needed. Perfect. How about you have your break now?”

Honestly, I do wonder how this simple task went so wrong, so many times.

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A Special Kind Of Bigot

, , , , , | Working | May 8, 2021

My carer and I are doing some shopping at a small local shop. We are about to enter when we are stopped by a female shop assistant.

Shop Assistant: “She’s not allowed in.”

Carer: “Why?”

Shop Assistant: “Social distancing rules. Everybody knows they can’t social distance.”

Carer: “Who can’t?”

Shop Assistant: “Those with special needs.”

We left to avoid confrontation.

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The Lucky Last Slice

, , , , , | Working | May 7, 2021

I’m eating a pizza with a friend. When there’s only one slice left, I notice a hair baked into the crust. I go to complain.

Me: “There’s a hair baked into this pizza. I’d like a discount on our bill, please.”

Clerk: “I can get you another pizza.”

Me: “We just ate the entire pizza before we realized it was unsanitary. I don’t want another pizza; I’d like a discount.”

Clerk: “All I can offer you is another pizza.”

I take the hair in my fingers and lift. The entire slice rises. I hold it, dangling in the air by the hair for several seconds.

Clerk: “I’ll get you a discount.”

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Stop! In The Name Of Shrubbery!

, , , , , | Legal | May 7, 2021

For several years, my dad worked as an inspector for the state transportation department, traveling the state to make sure roads were properly maintained.

On one of his trips, my dad got into a minor accident on a city street and was charged with running a stop sign. His boss was, naturally, extremely upset with my dad, until my dad presented his dashcam footage; the stop sign my dad had run was completely blocked by a bush.

Our state has a law that all road signs must be clearly visible from a certain distance, and this stop sign was in violation of that law. My dad’s boss sent another employee to the city for an inspection. That employee found several other instances where road signs were obstructed from view, and my dad’s boss had a field day issuing the citations to the city.

When my dad went back to the city for his court appearance, he told the judge what he did for a living and what role he had played in the entire thing. The judge waived all charges and invited my dad to spend some time in town and “make sure the city engineering office had cleared everything up to his satisfaction.”

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