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Arrested For Coke But Not The Kind You’re Thinking

, , , , , | Right | October 14, 2022

Our town has a street carnival every year. During these days, our family-run butcher (run by my dad) is closed, and we only sell bratwurst and fleischwurst (bologna) out of a small tent, which only holds three to four people and some desks.

A customer comes over to my desk and orders a fleischwurst in a bread roll — nothing special. I just do my job and hand it over to her.

A couple of minutes later, after I have already sold two more bread rolls with bratwurst, the customer comes back and complains:

Customer: “There is meat in my fleischwurst!”

“Fleisch” means “meat” in German.

Customer: “I’m a vegetarian! How could you sell me meat?!”

My dad came over to talk to her and calm her down. She kept on yelling, and my dad offered her a cold Coke as a refund. She accepted it…

Until a minute later when an open bottle of Coke was thrown into our tent. I had had enough.

I stormed out of the tent, saw her running around the next tent, and tracked her down. I grabbed her by her arm and dragged her to an officer. I told him that she had tried to scam us and that she had thrown a bottle of Coke to hurt either us or a customer after her scam didn’t go well.

The officer took her to the police station, and I haven’t seen her since then.

I’ve had thousands of customers in my life, but holy s***, I remember that woman like no other.

The Scottish Aren’t Known For Being Sheepish

, , , , , , , | Right | April 26, 2022

Two friends and I (along with several thousand other knitters from all over the world) descend on the ancient and beautiful city of Edinburgh, Scotland for the annual Yarn Festival. I’ve booked rooms in a guesthouse, and at breakfast the first morning, we discover that everyone else at the table is there for the same reason. There’s a total of four Americans and two Austrians. We quickly calculate that it will be slightly cheaper and much faster for us to split a taxi fare six ways than to ride the bus to the venue every day.

Although we have all signed up for classes, the real draw is the stunning variety of beautiful wools offered by two exhibition halls worth of vendors. We hold back the first day, but at sunset on the second day, the six of us stagger out of the venerable Corn Exchange heavily laden with purchases.

Our driver watches as we pack bag after bag after bag into his Tardis-like black taxi.

Finally, he asks slyly:

Driver: “Wouldnae it be cheaper tae just tak’ a sheep home wid ye?”

This story is part of our Halfway-Through-2022 roundup!

Read the next Halfway-Through-2022 roundup story!

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Check Out The Cajones On This Team!

, , , , , , | Working | March 29, 2022

When I was in middle school, my church worship team was invited to perform a set at a downtown music festival. As expected, our leaders had to tell the organizers what instruments and equipment we had so the techs could properly hook us up.

Enter me, the percussionist. We already had a drummer on a kit, but I kept the beat and played whatever other instrument had to be played. Maracas? My job. Bongos? No problem. Slamming chains on an upside-down metal washbin? Loved it.

But my main instrument was the weird hippie stepchild of the percussion family: the cajon. It was basically a drum that you sat on to play. If not for the instrument company logo on the front, you’d think it was some sort of alternative-style chair. To play it, I had to sit with my legs apart, lean forward, and slap the panel for every beat. Weird as it was, it was a necessary component.

When we got to the festival, everyone else was getting hooked up. Absolutely no one was paying a shred of attention to me, but I was used to it and just trying to stay out of the way of everyone who had more finicky instruments and equipment.

While the announcers kept the crowd entertained, radio host style, we started filing out onstage. Everyone else set up, I carried my cajon onstage, put it down, and sat in preparation to play.

Cue an extremely flustered tech running onstage after me. Utterly confused as to why he was heading for me and not one of the guitarists or vocalists, I really didn’t say anything.

Tech: “You have a cajon? Nobody told me we had a cajon!”

He set up a mic where it would best pick up my cajon. That was the fastest I’ve ever seen anyone set up a microphone, even if he was muttering about how “Nobody told me there was a cajon!” the whole time.

Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 19

, , , , , | Right | January 10, 2022

I own a small soap business and sell at fairs and festivals occasionally. A woman who looks to be in her early sixties approaches.

Woman: “Wow, this all looks so nice!”

Me: “Oh, thanks!”

Woman: “The owner is such a sweetheart. We’re good friends. She said I could come by and pick something out for free. Just write it down as Karla, with a K, so she knows it’s me.”

Me: “That’s funny, I’m the owner and I’ve never seen you before in my life. Karla with a K.”

Karla with a K looked stunned for a second and then took off across the street. Nice try.

Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 18
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 17
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 16
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 15
Getting Owned By The Owner, Part 14

This Pun Was A Real Hit

, , , , , , | Related | October 21, 2021

My teenage daughter and I are at a Renaissance Festival listening to a musician. I say something to my daughter and she punches me in the arm.

Wife: “What did you hit Dad for?”

Daughter: “Tell her.”

Me: “I just said I knew that musician. During periods of civil disorder, he breaks into businesses and steals stuff.”

Wife: “…”

Me: “He’s a luter.”

Wife: “Hit him again.”