A Symptom Of Our Oversharing Society

, , , , , | Right | October 28, 2018

(I work for a travel insurance company. One of the things we  do is medical screening. If you have certain pre-existing medical conditions — such as asthma, angina, or diabetes, etc. — you need to pay a small extra premium to cover you. None of us are medically trained; we just input the illness and ask whatever questions our system presents. We need to know exactly what the illness or condition is, and if any medication is taken, exactly what that is, too.  A woman calls who has just bought her insurance for a trip, and we are now onto the medical questionnaire as she has said, “Yes,” to having a pre-existing medical condition.)

Me: “Okay, can you tell me what medical conditions you have and what medication, if any, that you take for it?”

Customer: “Oh… I have a venereal disease.”

Me: “I need to know which one specifically.”

(The customer then proceeds to go into graphic detail about her illness, because she’s not quite sure which one it is.)

Me: *interrupting* “Madam! I’m not medically trained! I can’t diagnose what it is from your symptoms. I need to know the name of the illness.”

Customer: “Oh. I’m not sure.”

Me: “If you can’t find any paperwork, I suggest calling your doctor. If you take any medication, get them to confirm it, as well, and call back and give us your policy number. Once you have all the relevant information, we can continue the questionnaire.”

Customer: “Okay. Thanks for your help!”

(When the customer hung up I had to go and get some water as I felt queasy. Whatever she had, it was unpleasant, I can tell you that.)

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Buckled In For A Fun Ride

, , , , , , | Legal | September 29, 2018

In the late 1970s, my partner and I were sworn federal investigators with a then-obscure federal law enforcement agency. As befitted our low budget, our official government vehicles were a bunch of very un-cop-like AMC Hornet sedans, obtained when the federal government bailed out a failing automaker. We wore plain suit coats and ties, and our vehicles were unmarked.  

One afternoon while returning to our office in Norfolk, we approached a stoplight on a public street and stopped. An obviously de-commissioned Virginia State Police trooper-car, still with its door mount spotlight and a cheap mono-color repaint, pulled up alongside us. The driver was obviously a young Navy sailor, wearing a wife beater T-shirt and dark sunglasses.  

The light changed, and we drove up the street to the next light. All the while, the sailor behind the shades was giving us the once-over and scowling at us. At the next stoplight, the sailor in the ex-cop car again glared at us, resting his left hand on the spotlight control, giving an unconvincing impression of a real law-man.  

All at once, my partner burst out laughing. He explained that our sailor, while still glaring at us, reached down and brought something to his mouth and began talking into… his seat belt buckle!

As the light changed, my partner reached down, tapped the yelp button on our siren just once and grabbed our real microphone. Over the car’s loud-hailer, he called out, “Better re-buckle that seatbelt, sailor.”  

As we pulled away, this embarrassed cop-wannabe hit his brakes and pulled over to the side as we quietly drove away.

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Roasting You Over The Roasting Tin

, , , , , | Related | September 13, 2018

(I’m a female in my late twenties living with my mother due to the fact neither of us can afford living alone. The rule is that one person cooks, the other does the dishes. Mum is locked in the mind-set that I am a child and thus cannot cook, so she always cooks, and I do the dishes. I have washed up all the pans and dishes from our dinner/tea/evening meal, bar the roasting tin, as Mum siphons off the fat — another thing I’m not allowed to do because she is locked in the mind-set that I am a child — and usually does it the morning after, so I empty the sink of the water. This has never been an issue before until this moment.)

Mum: *really angry* “Why did you let the water out?!”

Me: “Er, cause the washing up was done?”

Mum: “The roasting tin isn’t, though!”

Me: “Yeah, but you do the fat part first thing in the morning, so I let it out.”

Mum: “I’m going to do it now! And now I have to use more water!”

(We’re not on a meter, so it doesn’t affect our bills, and we’ve never ever been on a water meter.)

Me: “Sorry.”

Mum: “Next time, leave it in!”

(From then on, I leave the water in whenever we’re using the roasting tin. This goes on for months. Then, one evening, this happens:)

Mum: *really angry* “WHY DID YOU LEAVE THE WATER IN?!”

Me: “What? But you told me to!”

Mum: “Why would I say that?!”

Me: “For the roasting tin!”

(There is a pause.)

Mum: “Empty the sink of water in the future!”

Me: “…”

(I am looking for another place to live.)

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Unfiltered Story #120919

, , , | Unfiltered | September 13, 2018

(I work in a leisure centre that has a pool, a gym, squash, bowls, fun-play, roller-skating, classes and a cafe. Most of our locals are members so they just swipe in when they come in the building. We do not always know new members, hence…)

Customer: *just thrusts his card at me and glares*

Me: “Hello! What is that for?”

Customer: *he just glares at me as if I have just asked him to kill a puppy* “TO LOG IN!”

Me: “And what are you doing?”

Customer: *glares again* “LOGGING IN!”

Me: “To do what?”

Customer: “GYM!”

(Okay, I purposely look all innocent sometimes when we get an arrogant but it is so much fun watching them getting all ‘me’.)

Banking On Getting The Right Number

, , , , , , , | Right | September 12, 2018

(When I moved into my first home, I got a phone line installed. However, after a few months, I kept coming home to messages on my answering machine with customers leaving their account numbers and all sorts of sensitive information, sometimes even PINs! I deleted them all right away, but eventually one customer mentioned the bank name in their message. I reported this to the bank, and it turned out that my phone number was one digit different from a new one they had just gotten, so lots of customers were simply misdialing. Horrified, the bank put up notices in the bank and sent out letters reminding customers not to leave such sensitive details in messages, but also about how many had been leaving this information on the answering machine of a personal residence and to be extra careful when dialing. They were in the process of changing their number, but they said it would take a while. Because I had only recently gotten my own number, my phone provider wouldn’t change it without charging, so I decided to wait for the bank to change their number, instead; after all, I had gotten mine first. All the while, I kept receiving the messages, which I always deleted, but occasionally I would be home when somebody called. This is one such occasion.)

Me: *answering the phone not long after waking up* “Hello?”

Customer: “Well, that’s not a very professional way to answer the phone.”

Me: “I’m sorry?”

Customer: “Ugh. You’re new. In my day, we trained staff to be respectful to customers whether they phoned or came into the branch in person. Young people are always so disrespectful; you really don’t deserve your jobs.”

Me: *finally clicking* “Oh. You’re looking for [Bank].”

Customer: “Yes, dearie, or is that too taxing for you? Get me your manager; I will not tolerate this.”

Me: “Oh. Sorry, this isn’t the bank—”

Customer: “Oh, trying to wiggle out of this, are you? Well, it won’t work! You’ll be lucky to get hired to scrub toilets after I’m done talking to your manager! Get him immediately!”

Me: “You’re calling a private residence. This is not the bank.”

Customer: “Wait, are you hacking their phone line? I’m phoning the police! You’re going to steal all my money—”

Me: “No, the bank’s new number is one digit different from mine. I have told them, and they’ve sent out letters to all their customers. They’ve also put notices up in branch. It’s the last digit. A lot of people accidentally misdial it. The banks are going to change their number, but they said it will take a while. Hopefully it’ll be sorted soon.”

(There is a long pause.)

Customer: “I don’t believe you. You’re a thief trying to steal my money! I am going to go to the bank and tell them right away! I hope you enjoy prison! They won’t tolerate your rudeness, either.”

Me: “Sure. Go to the branch. You might see the bright yellow notices up there telling you about this.”

(I hung up. I never heard anything after that, but a few weeks later, all the calls stopped. I guess the bank finally sorted it out.)

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