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If Only There Was A Simple Solution For Scrubbing Away Bad Flatmates

, , , , | Friendly | November 27, 2021

I’m the author of this story. Since my original plan to first change the lock and then call the landlord didn’t work out, I decided to move out of the flat and look for new accommodation entirely. The air in the house was tense, and by this point, we barely talked to each other… which led to this incident a few days before I finally moved away for good.

I decided to cook some risotto for myself, but due to unfamiliarity with the recipe, some rice burned and formed a thick, hardy crust that couldn’t be simply washed off with some soap. I decided to save myself some effort and use the baking soda plus vinegar trick to soften it up for later, so I laid out a layer of baking soda, poured the vinegar, and set a two-hour timer as I waited for it to take effect.

At some point before the timer expired, I heard a knock on my bedroom door.

Me: “What is it?”

Flatmate: “Dude, what the f***?  You’ve been b****ing about me and [Other Flatmate] leaving dirty dishes and cooking stuff around, yet when you do it, it’s fine?”

Me: *Raising my eyebrow* “What are you talking about? I’m pretty sure I put the fork and spoons in the dishwasher; it’s not like I have to run it as soon as I finish a meal.”

He scoffed at me and looked at me smugly.

Flatmate: “And what about the pot? Won’t you wash it, huh? That doesn’t count because it’s too hard? Is your prissy little a** too heavy to do it today?”

I finally got where he was going with this, and I was not happy.

Me: “That’s because I burnt rice in the pot. That crust is like tank plating; do you expect me to scratch it away with my bare hands?”

Flatmate: “Oh, f*** you. No, you aren’t going to bulls*** me. You totally left it there dirty. I have got better things to do with my afternoon than cleaning up after you and being b****ed at.”

Me: “And I don’t want to waste my time cleaning a—”

Flatmate: “Ah-ha! Now you admit it!”

Me: *Grumbling* “If you’d let me finish, and if you did something besides strolling around the town and partying in this flat, you’d know about how to remove crusts from pots.”

Flatmate: “Yeah, with elbow grease, which you clearly didn’t use.”

Me: “No! I used vinegar and some bicarbonate to soften the d*** thing up.”

The timer goes off right about then.

Me: “There, the timer has expired. Now I’m going to show you.”

Flatmate: *Crossing his arms* “Hmpf.”

I went into the kitchen, opened the tap, and started scrubbing away, with entire pieces basically sliding off as the fizzling mush got washed away. [Flatmate] looked sheepish to be sure, but at that point, I was completely done with his and the other guy’s s*** and refused to eat at home for the remaining week I was there until I managed to move into the all-male dorm I had already planned to spend the rest of the academic year in before looking for a new flat entirely after the summer. My new flatmates are much more reasonable nowadays!

Related:
Flatmates Like This Make Me Sick

Driving His Business Right Into The Ground

, , , , | Working | November 18, 2021

I’m driving my car on a busy city road and a guy in a company van behind me is doing his level best to cause an accident, tailgating and popping out from time to time as if to overtake. I’d rather have this kind of driver in front of me, so I give him room to pass, only for him to do the same with the next car in front.

I realise from the logos on the van that it’s a small company that we do business with, so I pull over and give them a call. The front office assistant picks up the phone.

Me: “I would like to let you know that one of your guys is driving recklessly and you might want to do something about it before he gets into an accident. The license plate is [number].”

Assistant: “I see. I’ll let the management know, but…”

She does the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

Me: “Oh. You don’t have a program for safe driving, that kind of thing?”

Employee: “Oh, we do. It’s just that the current driver is the company owner.”

It’s Close, But Curfew Beats Ice Cream

, , , , | Right | November 15, 2021

Our town has had a curfew set to 10:00 pm due to the health crisis, which expanded until 11:00 pm yesterday.

Every single day, as soon as we close the doors, there are at least five cars passing in our drive-thru lane asking if we’re open, why we’re closed, and why can’t they order anyway since they are already here. I usually greet them via the mic and inform them that we’re closed. Then, it’s this lady’s turn.

Customer: “But I want ice cream.”

Me: “I understand, madam, but we’re closed.”

Customer: “It’s just ice cream, not a whole meal!”

Me: “Again, we’re closed. The cash desk is not active, and the ice cream machine was cleaned twenty minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

Customer: “BUT I’M PREGNANT!”

Me: “Well, congrats… but we’re still closed. Goodbye.”

And then, they almost ran over me with their SUV while I was taking out the trash, cussing at me for being rude to a pregnant woman who was illegally outside twenty minutes after curfew with her husband and a whole bunch of already-born kids in the car.

That’s Just Hysterical!

, , , , | Healthy | October 21, 2021

I’m relating my medical history to a doctor I’ve never seen before. He’s wrapped up the visit and is typing the report, and he’s already had two phone calls in the meanwhile.

Doctor: *Typing* “…and when did you have the hysterectomy?”

Me: “I don’t remember which year. It could have been… 2016, 2017. I’m not sure.”

Doctor: *Still typing* “Okay, I’ll put in 2016. But it was after the pregnancy, anyway, correct?”

Me: “I’m quite sure it was after the pregnancy, doc.”

Doctor: *Pauses* “Oh.”

It’s a hard time to be a doctor.

Small Town Problems Require Small Town Solutions 

, , , , | Right | October 20, 2021

There are many horror stories about the Italian mail service, but there are exceptions.

A friend of my father lives in a city with 100,000 inhabitants and ten post offices. In those days when mail was sorted by hand and area codes were unheard of, he received a postcard that did not have his name or street address.

What it did have — the only identifying information it had — was a drawing of his nickname: an ice-pick.