Man Who Encases His Privates In Lead Has The Last Laugh

, , , , , , , | Healthy | November 16, 2018

I had testicular cancer and surgery, plus radiation therapy. These treatments needed a lead box closed around my privates. At the end of the last treatment, when the nurse pulled my sheet off to remove the box, he found…

A popped-out single-use turkey thermometer indicating I was done. I had saved it from the Thanksgiving turkey just to place in my navel after the treatment.

He had to run from the room before bursting into laughter.

Beer With Me For A Moment

, , , , , , | Working | November 15, 2018

(In early 1994, I am invited over to the States from the UK by an American music software house, as a demonstrator for their flagship software program at a major trade show in California. Whilst at the show, one of their lead sales managers, knowing of my liking for beer, invites me out along with several other folks from the company for an evening at a local bar. This bar is apparently known for having something like 114 different beers from around the world. Anxious to introduce my friends to the peculiar delights of British beer, I peruse the section dedicated to my home country, at which point the alarm bells go off. There are three beers on offer: a low-alcohol brew borne out of the privations of World War II which hasn’t been brewed for UK consumption since 1976, though still brewed for export at that time, a favourite of Clint Eastwood, but only ever available in bottles, never on tap, and a strong cask ale known for its knee-trembler abilities when consumed to excess. I therefore order a jug of the final nectar for our drinking pleasure, which is duly delivered… at which point I feel the need to complain to the barman.)

Me: *after taking a sip* “This isn’t [Brand]!”

Barman: “Yes, it is, sir.”

Me: *deploying my best upper-class English accent* “Au contraire, dear boy! For your information, I was born 100 yards from their brewery in Chiswick, London. I was raised drinking this, my local brew, and can categorically assure you that this is not [Brand]!”

Barman: “What makes you think that?”

Me: “Well, for a start, you’re obviously serving it from a gas-pumped barrel; [Brand] is only ever served from a tap-and-vent barrel, hand-pumped via a long swan neck. Secondly, the colour is entirely wrong, and thirdly — and most importantly — it tastes nothing like [Brand]. I have no idea what you call it here, but in my country we have a little something called the Trades Descriptions Act, which makes it illegal to pass off a product as something else.”

Barman: “…”

Me: “Get me your manager.”

(The manager ended up giving us free drinks for the rest of the night which, despite this hiccup, proved highly entertaining for all concerned, and a prime example of American hospitality. I note with considerable pleasure that in the intervening years, America has embraced the production of craft ale/real ale and is now making some seriously excellent beers.)

No One Is Surprised, As Angrily Honking The Car Horn Proves Less Effective Than Language

, , , , , , | Friendly | November 13, 2018

(I’m leaving campus late at night and I come up to the intersection at the street outside. The light is red. I press the button for the pedestrian crossing. I’ve noticed before that this intersection’s lights are badly programmed: it takes three to five minutes at night for the light to turn green after pressing the button. There’s no traffic at all, and no other people around. I press the pedestrian crossing button and wait near it. About five seconds later, a lone car comes up on the road to my left, also out of the campus, clearly intending to go straight across in the same direction as me. It stops at the red light, in the second lane away from me. Then, suddenly:)

Driver: *Hoooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk.*

(I’m startled and confused.)

Driver: *Hoooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk.*

(I’m alarmed enough that I take a couple steps away.)

Driver: *Hoooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooooooonk.*

(I look over and see it’s an expensive sports car, with some very impatient-looking, young dude behind the wheel. He’s making weird and angry faces at me and gesturing wildly; either pointing at me or at the light-pole behind me, while really laying on his horn. The other side of the street is a residential neighborhood, it’s late at night, and he’s making an enormous racket. I’m understandably weirded out and I take some more steps away.)

Driver: *Hoooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooooooonk. Hoooooooooooooonk.*

(He keeps on making angry faces at me and gesturing. I step away some more.)

Driver: *Hoooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooonk. Hooooooooonk. Hoooooooooooooonk.*

(With more angry faces and gesturing, I’m thoroughly freaked out. This is really weird, and there’s no one else around at all. The honking is just nonstop now. I take a wild guess and press the button for pedestrian crossing AGAIN. Like magic, the dude quits his gesticulating and lays off the horn.)

Me: *thinking* “Oh, my f****** God. Really!? That a**wipe really thought I was just standing around here waiting for a green light without having pressed the button?! And he was willing to scare the ever-living h*** out of me and wake up the whole neighborhood with this racket just to make me press that stupid button again?!

(Surprise, surprise, nothing happened after I pressed the button again. We both had to wait several more minutes for a green light, anyway, just like always at that intersection.)

Screaming At Strangers In Public Proves Ineffective Way To Elevate Your Request

, , , , | Friendly | November 6, 2018

(I am in the elevator in a building on my campus which I rarely set foot in, going to the fourth floor. The elevator stops on the third floor and a half-dozen people get off. There’s a fancily-dressed woman in her forties standing maybe ten feet away, looking a little bit confused. She looks at all the people leaving the elevator and going off, some walking right by her, but she doesn’t attempt to speak to any of them. After they’ve left, she looks at me, still in the elevator.)

Woman: “Do you know if there’s a restaurant in this building?”

(I pause as I think about it, but realize I just have no clue and shake my head.)

Me: “No, I don’t.”

(The elevator doors start to slide closed and I think nothing more of it. The woman then runs over to the elevator, forces the doors back open with her hands, and sticks her head in while looking at me very intently.)

Woman: *very frantically and unnecessarily loudly* “What? What?! I didn’t hear what you just said! WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

(Wide-eyed and alarmed, I rear back away from her.)

Me: “Uh. I don’t know. I said I don’t know. Sorry.”

(The woman stares at me for several beats, very skeptically, and in a kind of crazed way, while still forcibly holding the elevator doors open.)

Woman: “Oh. Well.”

(She stares at me skeptically some more, then finally, very reluctantly, steps back and lets the elevator doors go. I keep on looking at her in alarm, then start to repeatedly press the “close doors” button in the elevator to try to get away from her as fast as possible. Lady, really, I don’t care what your issues are, but the one person who’s stayed in the elevator, with the doors about to close, is really NOT the best person to try to ask for directions.)

Unfiltered Story #124529

, , , | Unfiltered | October 27, 2018

(I was working at a small call center for a mobile company specializing in overseas cellphone usage, we get a great deal of elderly people who do not understand cellphones, so I was used to explaining fairly elementary aspects of the hardware.)

Me: Thank you for calling [business], how can I help you?

Customer: You sent me a broken phone! I can’t get the d*** thing to turn on, I’ve tried everything! I need you to send me a new one!

Me: Okay, let’s start at the beginning first. Have you charged it?

Customer: It’s been charging all night and it even lights up but I still can’t get it to turn on!

Me: Do you have the phone with you? (yes) Okay, please try pressing and holding the “on” button for a few seconds, it has a red icon on it, just below the screen. It looks like a circle with a line coming down through the top. (I generally had to use ths description because people assume it’s the green “send” button, or else cannot identify either button at all.)

Customer: How do I press it?

Me: How…do you press a button?

Customer: Yes! I need to know how to get this thing on!

Me:…place your index finger or thumb on the button. Apply pressure.

Customer: It worked! How did you know that?!

Me: Just a hunch ma’am.

(I had to cover the mic to keep her from hearing my manager cracking up in the background.)

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