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Getting What You Ask For

, , , , , | Right | June 10, 2022

I work at a famous customizable sandwich shop. We have a pair of regulars, a husband and wife, who always order the same sandwich for their son. Today, we get to the vegetables and the wife stops me.

Wife: “My son always complains that you put too much lettuce on the sandwich. It’s really annoying me. Please put one, and only one, of each kind of vegetable on the sandwich. One slice of cucumber, one tomato, one thin strip of onion, and one-half inch long piece of shredded lettuce.”

We’re not monsters, so I gave them a reasonable amount of vegetables in a salad container.

The next time they came in, the regulars laughingly said the son didn’t speak to either of them for an entire day afterward, and the wife then prompted me to put more lettuce on the sandwich.

Hopefully, It’s Never Hammer Time

, , , , , | Right | May 27, 2022



I work at a local hardware store, and one day, I approach a customer who has been looking at our flashlights for a while.

Me: “You doing all right, ma’am?”

Customer: “Yes! Actually, no.”

Me: “What can I help you with?”

Customer: “Do you have one of these called a tire thumper? I need it to use as a club.”

Me: “Uh, I’m not entirely sure. Let me go check real quick.”

I go type it into my computer, thinking she wanted a flashlight brand called a tire thumper or something. Turns out that’s an item used to check the air pressure in a tire. I go back to the customer.

Me: “Was that a brand of flashlight? The only thing I’m finding online is an actual tire thumper, but we don’t carry those. What are you using it for?”

Customer: “I need it to whack my neighbor’s dog when I go on walks.”

Me: “Um…”

Customer: “I’ll go look around a bit.”

Don’t ask me why, but my people-pleaser-self tells the customer that we have some hammer handles down an aisle that looked kind of like a tire thumper. She heads down that aisle and after examining the handles, she picks up a small rubber mallet.

Customer: “This will be perfect! I can put it in my pocket, and it won’t fall out, but I can grab it quickly to hit the dog.”

Me: *Visibly uncomfortable* “Is there a specific reason you’re hitting the dog, ma’am?”

Turns out her neighbor’s dog had been attacking her dog when they went on walks, and she wanted a way to get the dog away quickly. I suggested she call animal control or the police instead, and she said she had never thought of that before, and she would do that next time. She still bought the mallet, and that was definitely the weirdest thing I had helped a customer with.

When I Get Drunk I Just Cry And Fall Asleep… In My Own Bed

, , , , , , | Legal | April 24, 2022



I live in an apartment near downtown. Some apartment buildings open onto some sort of communal hall or space. Mine opens onto the street.

I had a final in the morning at 7:00 am, so I went to bed early, around 8:00 pm. At around 2:00 am, I was awoken by a pounding on the door. A voice called out:

Stranger #1: “Dan, let me in! We lost the d*** keys!”

Or perhaps he was calling out,”‘D***, let me in! We lost the d*** keys!”

As my name is not Dan, I gave a simple reply.

Me: “F*** off.”

There was absolute silence for a few moments, and I attempted to go back to sleep. Then, there was a loud slam, followed by two more. At the fourth slam, my door was broken open, flinging woodchips across the small space of my apartment.

Three drunken guys barged in and one of them pointed at me and shouted:

Stranger #2: “Thief!”

They bumrushed my bed, grabbed me, stripped the blankets off of me, and dumped me outside the house. I utterly failed to defend myself, mostly managing only to flail and scream incoherently.

After they hustled me out, they latched the bar on the door, locking me out. I probably should have latched the bar in the first place, I belatedly think, as if I had, at the very least, they wouldn’t have been able to lock me out — not that I felt at all safe physically confronting them.

I was topless in only my bottom underwear. I had no phone and no shoes, and it wasn’t warm outside. The only good thing was that hardly anyone was out, as it was so late at night.

I made my way to the police department, out by the rec center. Fortunately, the night staff let me in. They gave me a department T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants so I felt less naked.

It then took them nearly four hours to confirm my identity, to confirm that I actually was the leaser of the apartment, and to get their ducks in a row. I spent most of that time alternatively moping and sleeping on a bench in the station.

They then broke down my door a second, more complete, time and arrested the three fellows who were still passed out in MY bed and on my couch.

After such a long morning, I wanted nothing more to pass out on my bed, but my bed and couch now smelled of gross boozy boy body odor and I just couldn’t. I wound up going to school and sleeping in the student lounge.

On my way to pass out, I got in touch with my professor and rescheduled my final. He was very understanding.

After I got back, I started determining what had actually happened. They’d gone through my stuff and scattered it everywhere. Everything stunk of them. I have a very sensitive nose and it was very difficult to deal with. I rented a carpet steamer and steamed my apartment to get the smell out.

Some of my clothing was also wrecked like they’d tried to put it on or something and ripped it. It was mercifully little, but the stuff that was damaged was my nicest stuff — really frilly and lacy stuff. I was into Elegant Gothic Lolita at the time.

They also took the graphics card out of my computer for some reason and left it sitting on the table? It still worked. I don’t understand why they did that.

Sorting out my stuff actually took a few weeks, partly because it was mentally taxing and emotionally difficult, and partly because some of the stuff they’d done was hidden.

With the help of the police, I pressed charges and took them to court.

This upset the three boys. It turned out that they lived in a different unit in the same building as me. I’d never met them before.

Since we lived in the same building, they started mocking me and making rude and threatening comments. They kept demanding I just drop it, and calling me a busybody who didn’t know how to have fun.

Once, one of them hit me. It didn’t leave a mark, and the judge refused to admit it as evidence. But it was enough that the police started stationing an officer near the building to keep an eye on things.

Despite my pleas to send them to jail, the judge said, “Boys will be boys,” and gave them community service. He seemed impressed that one of them was an engineer, one was studying corporate law, and the third was in the journalism program. He said they were “bright boys with a good future in front of them” and he didn’t want to ruin that.

Odd that he didn’t care that I — also was a bright individual with a good future in front of me — was now living in fear in the same building as three people who drunkenly assaulted me.

The apartment complex charged me for the damages to the door, and the things the boys damaged. I took the three boys to small claims court, and they were held jointly and severably liable for the damages, including the ones to my personal property, but they refused to pay up, choosing instead to leave the state. They didn’t even complete their community service program before they up and vanished.

This story does have a happy ending. I graduated, got my degree, and left the city, never to return.

What’s Sad Is That People Fall For This

, , , , , | Legal | April 8, 2022

I was looking at Facebook when my friend’s grandma sent me a friend request. I didn’t read her warning that she was being scammed and that you shouldn’t accept her request. I accepted it anyway, and we hopped right onto the chat.

Scammer: “Hello.”

Me: “Hi?”

Scammer: “Have you heard the news?”

Me: “What news?”

Scammer: “The Federal Agent FBI news.”

I knew at once this was a scammer, so I decided to play around with them.

Me: “No, I haven’t. What is the news?”

Scammer: “They have warned everyone in your State about your Credit Card Number being stolen. I am here to ensure that your Credit Card Number is safe. To verify, inform me of your Credit Card Number and we will prevent it from getting stolen.”

Me: “I see. And, what would my state be?”

Scammer: “Um… Kentucky?”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little.

Me: “I’m sorry, but that’s not my state.”

The scammer didn’t completely give up.

Scammer: “That is beside the point! Your Credit Card is at risk. To keep it safe, inform me of its number so we can help.”

Me: “Yes, I see. But why are you claiming to be a credit card specialist when it says you are my best friend’s grandma? Do you think I don’t know that you’re a scammer?”

There’s a pause in replies for a moment.

Scammer: “Ma’am, I am trying to help you.”

Me: “Sir, I am a lawyer, so please tell me your location and I will get police on the spot.”

The scammer disappeared. I couldn’t help but laugh; I am actually a lawyer.

No Wonder DMV Employees Are Grumpy; They Work With Her!

, , , , , | Working | February 22, 2022

I grew up in Virginia and moved to Iowa, and at one point, my husband and I moved back briefly to help my parents out. However, other life issues came up, and my husband and I had to move back to Iowa.

Several years after we moved back, we try to change insurance companies, and I find out that my license is invalid. My husband and I go to the DMV on my lunch break from work to find out what’s happening, and we proceed to go through the most ridiculous DMV trip I’ve ever had.

Clerk: “I see here that you have a Virginia license. Where is it?”

Me: “I did have one, but then I moved back and got an Iowa license. At the time, they said that they reinstated my old license since it had been so little time in between. I don’t have the Virginia license.”

Clerk: “Yes, but then you went and got a Virginia license. We need that one.”

Me: “I told you, I moved back from Virginia and got an Iowa license again.”

Clerk: “But you lived in Virginia?”

Me: “Yes. But then I moved back.”

The clerk speaks very slowly, as though I’m stupid.

Clerk: “But then you went to Virginia.”

Me: *Getting frustrated* “Look, I lived in Virginia. I moved here to Iowa and had an Iowa license. I moved back to Virginia briefly and had a Virginia license, but then I had to move back to Iowa. I then got an Iowa license again.”

Clerk: “But then you got a Virginia license.”

I’m seriously confused at this point.

Me: “When?”

Clerk: “About two weeks after you came here for an Iowa license.”

Me: “So, you’re saying that the system shows that two weeks after I got an Iowa license, I just went back to Virginia and got a Virginia license, and then… came right back?”

Clerk: “Yes, that’s what it shows! And now we need your Virginia license.”

I suddenly remember something.

Me: “Hold up. That’s around the time I got pulled over and the officer said something was wrong with my license. I called the DMV here and they told me that they saw nothing wrong. So, if what you’re saying is true, why did they tell me there was nothing wrong with my license?”

Clerk: “Well, I don’t know that, but all I know is that you had a Virginia license.”

Me: “Look, something must have gone wrong in your system. Can you double-check? This makes no sense.”

Clerk: “I can, but it’s not going to show anything.”

We proceed to wait fifteen minutes until a tech comes up, looks at something for a couple of minutes, and then leaves. The clerk calls us back up with a smug look.

Clerk: “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with our system. You went to Virginia and got a Virginia license.”

At this point, I can see there’s no arguing with her, and I figure that however much it makes no sense that I would go to another state, get a license there, and promptly come back, she can’t take my word for it.

Me: “So, what do I need to do to get a new license?”

The clerk looks at me with the smuggest expression I have yet seen on her face.

Clerk: “You need to turn in your Virginia license.”

Me: “I JUST TOLD YOU I DON’T HAVE— You know what? Never mind. Since I don’t have the license you say I should have, what do I need to do?”

Clerk: *Still smug* “You need all these identifying documents, and you need to pay the full fee for a new license since you don’t have your old one.”

Me: “Fine.”

My husband and I drive the half-hour back to our house, gather up all the documents, and then return, both fuming. When we return, we get a different clerk, although the first clerk is hovering nearby.

Clerk #2: “Oh, don’t worry about the fee! It’s clear you had an Iowa license before, so you can just pay the renewal fee.”

While I’m finishing up my paperwork, my husband is writing furiously on a comment card. The first clerk walks up to him.

Clerk: *In a sweet voice* “Was there anything I could help you with, sir?”

Husband: “NO.”

The clerk scurries away and vanishes into the back room. By this point, I’ve finished my paperwork and have had my picture taken, and my temporary license is finally in my hand.

Husband: “You look like you’re going commit murder in your picture.”

Me: “I contemplated it.”

And that’s how a visit to the DMV during a non-busy time turned into three hours away from work and me having a driver’s license picture that has been described as “an angry serial killer”. As for the clerk? I have yet to return to that DMV, so as far as I know, she’s still tormenting customers to this day.