Finally Registers The Reason Why  

, , , , , , | Right | October 7, 2019

(I am stocking shelves at a pharmacy. An elderly gentleman, at least in his 70s, walks up to me and looks at my nametag.)

Customer: “Mister [My Name], yes, I was wondering if you could open up a register for me?”

(I look at the cashier stands. Two are operating, and the lines are not busy at all.)

Me: “The wait shouldn’t be very long. Is there a problem?”

Customer: “I really just need you to open a register for me, please.”

Me: *very confused* “I assure you, the ladies running the registers right now are competent and will have you out the door in no time.”

Customer: “That’s just it. They are ladies…”

(He turns to me and exposes the large box of condoms he has secreted in his jacket.)

Customer: “I wouldn’t be so brazen!”

Me: “Right this way, sir.”

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When The Druggies Of The Sixties Expect Common Sense Now

, , , , , , | Right | October 6, 2019

(While working in my department, I overhear an elderly woman complaining to her son.)

Woman: “I honestly don’t understand how these people nowadays don’t have common sense. When I ask for Tylenol, they should know I mean acetaminophen and direct me to the generic stuff. What kind of level of stupidity is our nation stooping to?”

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Was About To Have A Face Off

, , , , , , | Related | October 6, 2019

(I’ve just had all four wisdom teeth pulled. My grandma is driving me home, and since I don’t remember, tells me my antics the next day.)

Grandma: “What’s wrong? You look sad!”

Me: “I want my face back!”

Grandma: “What?”

Me: “The dentist took my face!”

Grandma: “What do you mean?!”

(I’m nearly in tears at this point.)

Me: “They said they’d only take my teeth! But my face is gone!”

Grandma: “How do you know your face is gone?”

Me: “I can’t feel it anymore! They took my face!”

(My grandma has to pull over due to laughing so hard. She pulls down the mirror to prove I do, in fact, still have my face. I start crying out of sheer joy.)


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Cats Off, To Responsible Pet Owners

, , , , , | Friendly | October 5, 2019

(I’m sitting in the waiting room of the clinic with my kitten in a cat crate on my lap. My female kitten has been desexed, and now we are waiting for a vet to come and remove her stitches. As she has had stitches, she also has a cone on her head for the last two weeks and it’s safe to say she’s well and truly over it. The poor thing is softly doing sad little kitten “meep” sounds and looks miserable. As she is also rather small, even as a kitten, the sight looks even more woeful. She has been getting a lot of sympathy from the staff and the receptionist says that since it will take less than five minutes to get the stitches out, she will bump me ahead of the queue to get me out of here quickly. A woman waiting with her dog is also in the waiting room and sees my kitten.)

Woman: “Oh, no, poor thing! What happened here?”

Me: “She’s okay; she’s just a bit miserable at the moment because she’s had the cone for the last couple of weeks. Thankfully, it comes off today!”

Woman: “That’s good; she certainly doesn’t look happy! Is everything okay?”

Me: “Oh, yeah. She’s just been desexed. We’re just here to get the stitches out. She’s had the cone to stop her licking at her stitches.”

(The woman looks rather taken aback by this news.)

Woman: “Desexed? What do you mean by that?”

Me: “Well, I had her spayed.”

Woman: *still looking confused* “Yes, but why?”

(I now assume the woman is confused because my kitten looks rather small for her age, and therefore looks a little too young to have been desexed.)

Me: “Well, it’s to stop her having kittens herself. My other kitten is a male; he was desexed, as well. She looks small, but she’s at the age where it’s safe.”

Woman: *now looking slightly annoyed for some reason* “What does spaying involve, exactly?”

Me: “Well, it’s not the nicest thing, but it involves the removal of the female’s ovaries to stop egg production. Thankfully, it’s a very routine procedure, and apart from the cone and some stitches, my little girl has come out wonderfully. She was walking up and about in two days. She just can’t wait to get the cone off.”

Woman: *now looking horrified* “That sounds horrid! Why would you do such a thing?!”

Me: *taken very much aback, but also annoyed because it’s really none of this woman’s business* “Well, cats make wonderful pets, but they also aren’t good for the ecosystem. I’m not a cat breeder and wouldn’t know how to properly breed kittens and look after them, so I desex my cats to ensure they don’t contribute to a feral cat problem, and also to reduce the number of cats in shelters. Especially since my other cat is a boy; I don’t want kittens. He’s been desexed, too. Not only that, but a female cat in heat is irritating. They meow and screech horribly, and they mark their territory by peeing everywhere.”

Woman: *thoroughly disgusted now* “Well, that sounds ridiculous. I could not imagine putting my poor kitty through that torture and removing their body parts just to stop nature happening. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

(I was about to make my retort when I heard the receptionist call my name. Not wanting to start a fight and just wanting to get out of there, I went in and got my cat’s stitches out. The whole thing took two minutes, and my kitten already looked much happier without the cone. As I walked out, I overheard the receptionist call out for a neutering. Guess who stood up with her dog?)

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Happens All The Bloody Time

, , , , | Healthy | October 5, 2019

(I donate blood about every two months, provided that I’m healthy enough to do so. One thing the blood bank screens for is anemia: my hematocrit has to be 38 or higher to donate and not become anemic from it. Hematocrit in the low 30s is anemic; around mid-20s you’d probably need a transfusion yourself. But some time in the last eight weeks, the blood bank switched to testing hemoglobin instead, the minimum donation number for which is 12.5. I didn’t know it was a new test.)

Phlebotomist: “Okay, your temperature, blood pressure, and pulse look good. Let’s test your iron.” *pricks my finger, takes a few drops of blood, and puts them in the tester* “You’re testing at 12.6.”

Me: “My hematocrit is 12.6? Should I go to the hospital?”

Phlebotomist: “What? Why? Oh! No, your hemoglobin is 12.6, which for our purposes is equivalent to a 39 hematocrit. You’re fine to donate. If you had a 12.6 hematocrit, you’d be unconscious at least. I’d be calling an ambulance… or a hearse.”

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