Trying To Pad Out The Sale

, , , , , , | Right | February 23, 2018

(We run a business that supplies weapons, clothing, and armour for Live Action Role Play [LARP] and re-enactment. We often set up and sell directly to customers at games, as well as participating in the combat ourselves.)

Me: “So, you want the full set of plate armour? That’ll be [price].”

Customer: “Great. I can’t wait!”

Me: “Do you have a gambeson?”

Customer: “What’s that?”

Me: “It’s a type of padded jacket you need to wear underneath most armours. It’s great for protecting your real-world squishy meat sack from the physical force of the blows, and—”

Customer: “Nah, it’s fine. They’re just toy swords. How much damage can they do?”

Me: “Again, it’s full, steel-plate armour, and without a gambeson to pad it, a lot of the force on it is transferred straight to your body. I suppose if you have, like, a puffy winter jacket—”

Customer: “Listen. Stop trying to upsell me, all right?! I’ve been doing this stuff for years! Just… the d***… armour.”

Me: “All right. It’s your call, mate.”

(I processed the sale, and then assisted him into the armour, as it’s very difficult to achieve alone, and the customer had no friends to help. An hour after that, full combat started, and I could see this guy running down the field at full tilt. A minute later, a Code Red was called for a serious injury that required the medical officer. The customer had fallen over and cracked a rib inside his own armour, because there was no padding.)

They Weren’t Quick On The Draw

, , , , , , | Working | January 15, 2018

(My husband and I work for the same company. Our daughter is in daycare. Our daycare has a strict rule about parents picking up their children no later than 5:45, which is perfectly reasonable. When our company holds its annual Golf Day, it is traditional for the day to end with a drawing for several nice prizes. On this particular day, the drawing has been delayed, and it is starting to get late.)

Me: “We’re going to have to leave soon; otherwise, we’ll be late picking up [Daughter].”

Husband: “I know. I hate to miss the drawing, though. The top prize is a mountain bike, and I’d love to win it. My bike is falling apart, and we can’t afford to replace it.”

Me: “Well, let’s give them five more minutes.”

(Five minutes come and go. No drawing yet.)

Me: *to the event organizer* “We have to get going. If we win a prize, could someone else accept it for us?”

Organizer: “Nope. You have to be here to accept it. We want to discourage people from sneaking off early.”

Me: “We’re not sneaking off early, though. We have to pick up our daughter from daycare.”

Organizer: *shrugs* “Too bad. That’s the rule.”

Husband: “Oh, well. We probably wouldn’t have won anything, anyway.”

(The next day, we found out that my husband’s name WAS called for the mountain bike, but because he wasn’t there, it was given to someone else. The worst part? The person who won it didn’t like us, and he gleefully rubbed it in our faces that we’d missed out.)

Keep Your Mouth Shut And Your Legs Covered

, , , | Friendly | December 15, 2017

(I am reading at a cafe, waiting for an event to start, when a friend sits down with me. We greet each other and start chatting. Not long after, a woman walks past wearing black leggings which were so stretched that I can see her underwear and skin colour through the fabric. I think to myself, “Leggings aren’t pants,” but out loud I just say:)

Me: “Urgh…”

Friend: “What’s up, [My Name]?”

(I’m just about to say what I thought, but then the old saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” comes to mind, so I bite my tongue to stop talking.)

Me: “Oh, nothing; I just bit my tongue.”

(A few minutes later we got up to head into the event, and I noticed that my friend was dressed in very tight, see-through black leggings just like the woman was. I’m glad I listened to the angel on my shoulder instead of the devil.)

Engineered The Perfect Misunderstanding

, , , , , | Learning | November 13, 2017

(I’m checking engineers in at an alumni event where they each receive a name tag, but I am neither an engineer nor an alumni of the school.)

Engineer: “Where’s your name tag?”

Me: “I’m not an engineer.”

Engineer: “Don’t worry; it’s not that hard. Just peel the back off and stick it to your shirt.”

What Happens When You Insult A Real Lady

| Ottawa, ON, USA | Right | May 17, 2017

(My wife and I volunteer at an ‘alternative’ event for leather enthusiasts. A friend of ours is one of the producers of the event and we don’t have the 200 dollars a piece to spend on admission for the weekend it so we volunteer at the coat check to get in for free on the night of the stage show. Because it is an alternative scene there are a bunch of LGBT people at the event, my wife (a trans-woman) and myself (cis-woman) included, and it is generally regarded as a safe space. My wife has the added benefit of being profoundly deaf and with hearing aids. She has also been dealing with health issues and this the first time she has been out of the house for weeks, so she’s excited to be out. It’s the end of the show so my wife, two other volunteers, and I are running around like mad getting everyone’s items while also making playful, sexy small talk with the patrons while they wait, to keep them happy. A few are already three sheets to the wind. One patron, who is plastered, comes up.)

Patron: “Wow, there’s a few women back here.”

Other Volunteer: “I know! How often do you get such an array of ladies to handle your drawers?”

Patron: *looking pointedly at my partner* “So you are all real women?”

(I start to feel my hackles rise. I protectively put an arm around my wife and proudly declare with a smile…)

Me: “Of course we are ALL real women.”

Patron: *pointing to me* “Hmm, you’re a real woman.” *pointing to my wife* “You aren’t…” *pointing to the other two* “You are and you are…”

(I’m shocked and rush her to get someone’s coat before he can say any more insulting things about her, but while she didn’t catch the whole exchange she knows she was just clocked as transgender. He gets his things and steps away. My wife anxiously asks me what he said.)

Me: “He’s just a drunk; pay no attention to him.”

Wife: *pressing* “What did he say?”

Me: “It’s nothing.”

Wife: “I need to know. You know it drives me crazy not knowing.”

Me: *giving in* “He… said you aren’t a real girl. But he’s a jerk; don’t listen to him.”

(The other volunteers notice her reaction and back me up that he was an idiot and swoop in to support her. I slink over to the bouncer (another friend of ours) and tell him what just happened. He swoops in to deal with the drunk patron. The volunteer co-ordinator and other volunteers offer to let me and my wife take a break until he leaves. I haul my wife to the now almost-empty auditorium where she has a minute to compose herself. Our friend who’s the producer comes out of backstage as I’m rubbing her back. He’s run ragged and tired from running the whole weekend’s festivities and looks the part, but pauses when he sees us. He knows she’s been sick and asks how she’s doing.)

Me: “Oh, someone was just being a jerk.”

Producer Friend: *immediately worried* “What happened?”

Me: “Some drunk said that she wasn’t a ‘real’ girl.”

Producer Friend: *to my wife* “Come here.” *gives her a hug and a kiss* “Don’t listen to idiots like that. They aren’t worth your time. And if I’m in the same room as this guy point him out I will make sure he NEVER attends one of my events ever again! If anyone says you aren’t a real girl they have another thing coming. Got it?”

(My wife nodded and started to smile again. By the time we got back down to the coat check the drunk jerk had left. They cut off his service at the bar so he was forced to go somewhere else.)

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