Good Thing Bad Parenting Isn’t Contagious

, , , , | Healthy | January 23, 2021

I work for a school for students with special needs. Most of the parents are great, but some are idiots.

I am working in a first-grade classroom. One of the teachers takes one of the kids to the bathroom while I am helping the other teacher hand out breakfast. We suddenly hear a small scream, and the teacher comes out, holding the kid under the armpits.

Teacher: “He’s got ringworm! Get him to the nurse, quick!”

I grab the kid and take him to the nurse’s office, which is a closed-off area of the main admin office. The nurse is just about to go on her medication rounds but quickly checks the student, confirming it is ringworm, and goes to call his mother. It’s a small office so I hear the whole conversation while I keep the kid entertained.

Nurse: “Hello, [Mother], we just discovered that your son has ringworm. Could you please come get him?”

Mother: “Yes, I know. I saw it this morning.”

Nurse: “Excuse me?!”

Mother: “I put a bandaid on it. Didn’t you see?”

Nurse: “Ma’am, you cannot cure ringworm with a bandaid. You need to pick up your son and bring him home. He cannot return to school until a doctor confirms that the ringworm is gone.”

Mother: “I’m at work.”

Nurse: “You still need to come pick him up and take him home. How soon can you be here?”

Mother: “I’m at work; I can’t get him. He has to stay there for today.”

Nurse: “No, you need to pick him up. He has a contagious fungal infection and cannot stay here!”

Mother: “I’m at work.” *Hangs up*

The nurse turns back to me in shock.

Nurse: “Can you believe this?!”

Me: “Yes, but good news: she doesn’t work. She brings [Student] a hot lunch every day, so she’ll be here in a few hours.”

The nurse just looks at me, incredulous, but then goes out to the secretary and talks to her before coming back in and filling me in on the plan. She then leaves for her rounds, leaving me to watch the student and keep him isolated.

After two hours, when it’s almost time for our class’s lunchtime, the student’s mother drives up. The nurse has just returned, and she and the secretary leap into action.

The secretary lets the mother in but then stands by the door to the outside. The nurse comes out of her office, leading the student. I stand by the door leading into the school, blocking anyone from getting in.

The nurse marches up to the mother, who is dressed in a T-shirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops — definitely NOT a working uniform — and holds the student out to her.

Nurse: “Your son has a fungal infection that is contagious via skin contact and he cannot return here until you have a doctor’s note stating that the infection is one-hundred percent cleared up. It will be at least a week. Make sure your doctor includes a phone number because I will be calling to check and be sure [Student] was cleared. You may go now.”

The mother silently took her son and exited via the door the secretary was holding open for her. The student did return fully healed, but she never tried to pull that trick again!

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Which Stings More? The Chilis Or The Shame?

, , , , , | Friendly | January 22, 2021

While at university in the 1990s, I am flat-sharing with a couple of other chaps. I am studying in my room and can hear the sound of rhythmic chopping from the kitchen. The sound stops, shortly followed by a cry of pain. I dash to the kitchen with the thought that my flatmate has done himself a mischief with the knife. I arrived to see my flatmate with a weeping eye.

Me: “Are you okay?”

Flatmate: “I was cutting some chilis and rubbed my eye! F***, it hurts!”

Me: *Suppressing laughter* “You numpty. I’ve got some hayfever eye drops in the bathroom cabinet. They might take the sting out of it.”

A couple of minutes later, there is a scream from the bathroom. I make my way to the bathroom and knock on the door.

Flatmate: “F***, f***, f***…”

Me: “You all right in there, mate?”

Flatmate: *Pained* “No. I decided to use the toilet while I was in here…”

Me: “And you didn’t think to wash the chilis off your hands first?”

Flatmate: *Still pained* “No.”

Me: “I’ve heard milk is supposed to take the heat out of it. Shall I get you glass to dip into?”

His reply would have made a sailor blush. He eventually left the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, holding it away from his crotch. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t look at him without giggling.

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Not Your Body, Not Your Business

, , , , , , | Working | January 22, 2021

I work with a guy who completes triathlons. I don’t mind him going on about it; I feign interest to be polite. But his attitude toward diet and food really grates on me. On the rare occasion that I have fast food for lunch, he always makes snarky comments about the calories. If I am feeling sick or hungover, he barks on about how much sugar is in my sports drink. If anyone brings in cakes for birthdays, he goes on about how bad cakes are and how he isn’t going to have one.

I have had problems with my weight in the past. I went from overweight to muscular, but it is still a bit of a sore subject for me. I am a little fed up with his comments but keep quiet throughout. 

After Christmas, we are all back talking about what we did over the break. [Coworker] isn’t part of the conversation, surprisingly.

Me: “It was great, although I did indulge a bit too much. My wife bought me a really nice bottle of whisky and we all ate way too much.”

Coworker: *Condescendingly* “Well, the only thing bad I ate was three chocolate buttons. Over the whole break!”

One of my coworkers shoots me a glance, and without thinking, I blurt out:

Me: “Wow, I bet your family was so happy with you judging them for what they eat over Christmas. Such a fun guy to be around.”

A couple of the guys broke out in stifled laughter. I felt a bit bad, but it did feel good to finally put him in his place. [Coworker] finally got the fact that we didn’t want our diets analysed at work and stopped the comments.

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You Should Have Heard The Look On Her Face

, , , , , , , | Right | January 22, 2021

Me: “Can I have your rewards phone number?”

The customer bends down with her face almost touching the counter and whispers her phone number.

Me: “Could you please repeat it?”

Customer: *Yells* “What are you, deaf?!

I look at her for a second and reach up to flip my hearing aid out from behind my ear.

Me: “Yes, I am.”

She just looked at me. I don’t think she was expecting that!

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Wrap This Person In Bubble Wrap!

, , , | Healthy | January 21, 2021



I am accident-prone. I mean, REALLY accident-prone. I have broken most of the bones in my body at least once — some, in the case of my nose and fingers, multiple times. I have screws and plates all through my body. There’s nothing wrong with my bones, either, if you need further proof of what a disaster magnet I am.

In the highlights of my list of “big injuries”:

I was hit by a drunk driver and dragged two blocks when I was eight years old. It took me months to learn how to walk again. I fell down a set of stairs in high school and broke both my legs. I was ADJACENT to a car crash as a pedestrian and had all my ribs broken by a flying tyre. I was attacked by a pack of dogs when I was a toddler that somehow got past two locked six-foot gates. I was the only one injured when my first workplace burned down, despite being one of the first out the door. I was standing in the evacuation area with thirteen other people when the gas canister exploded, and guess who was the only person hit with glass and shrapnel? Me.

I am not exaggerating the disaster magnet thing. My husband is well versed in emergency rooms and surgery waiting areas.

I start working at a fast food place. My husband waits for the inevitable call that I have been horrifically burned by the fryer or somehow run over in the drive-thru.

One night, I’m working overnight. My husband is peacefully sleeping when he gets a call from my manager. He groggily answers the phone.

Husband: “Hello?”

Manager: “Hey, man. Um, [My Name] has just left here in an ambulance. She asked me to ask you to meet her at the hospital and bring her emergency bag?”

My husband gets out of bed and starts to grab my always packed emergency bag.

Husband: “Yep, on it, mate. Hey, what happened?”

Manager: “She, uh… She broke her hip.”

Husband: *Pause* “I gotta say, out of everything I expected, that wasn’t it.”

Yep. I had slipped on a puddle of grease and slid the exact wrong way with my leg twisted. It had dislocated, and then I landed on it full force and rolled. After surgery and rehab, I was okay, but my husband LOVES to tell people I broke my hip flipping burgers.

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