(I pick up the phone and get treated to this conversation:)

Me: “[Bakery]. How can I help you?”

Customer: “Uh, yeah, my friends and I wanted to order a sheet cake for our buddies who are coming back from serving overseas in the army.”

Me: “All right, let me just get some information from you.”

(I ask him for details about what kind of cake he wants and he answers.)

Customer: “And you can write a message on the cake, right?”

Me: “Yeah. What do you want it to say?”

Customer: “Okay, we want it to say, ‘Thanks for standing tall and proud…'”

(I think I can hear him snickering slightly, which confuses me.)

Customer: “‘Your long, hard ordeal is finally over.'”

(Now, I can hear other people in the background trying to stifle laughter.)

Customer: “And then we… And then we want their names written on it.”

Me: *not buying it anymore* “Uh-huh.”

Customer: “Staff Sergeant Rod Johnson, Private Jimmy Wang, Rifleman Dick Peters, Gunner’s Mate Willy Cox.”

(The guy on the phone and his buddies were all cracking up.)

Me: “Aren’t you forgetting Schmuck Phallusworth? Or is that who I’m speaking to?”

(Bellows of outrageous laughter erupted from the phone before I hung up.)

(I am a manager, working near an employee checking bags at a movie theater. They approach an elderly female guest.)

Employee: “Hello, ma’am, we have a bag check policy here; I do need to check your bag.”

Guest: “Are you Disney certified?”

Employee: “I’m sorry… What?”

Guest: “This is Florida. You need to be certified by Disney to check bags. Can I talk to your manager?”

Me: “I’m right here, ma’am. You don’t need to be certified by Disney to do anything. We need to check your bag.”

Guest: “Not until you prove you’re Disney certified. It’s required.”

Me: “Where are you from?”

Guest: “Jersey.”

Me: “Well, here in Florida, Disney doesn’t own everything yet. So, until then, we need to check your bag or it can’t come in.”

(Hidden in her bag: raisinets, snow caps, four bottles of water, one bottle of Sprite, a bag of hot fries, and peach gummies.)

CONTENT WARNING: This story contains content of a medical nature. It is not intended as medical advice.

(I am on vacation with my family, and my fianceé and I have gone to one of several theme parks in the area. I have a medical condition that can cause severe heart palpitations, which can cause me to lose consciousness for a few minutes. We are standing in line for a ride when I begin to feel off; I know I’m about to have a bad episode and I tell my fianceé that I need to sit down. She understands and helps me get out of line, but we don’t make it far before I lose consciousness. As I am taller than she is — I’m 6’4” and she is 5’3” — she is unable to help me once I’m out and I fall to the ground. I wake up a few minutes later to the sound of my fianceé arguing with someone I don’t know.)

Fiancé: “Stop touching him like that! He doesn’t need CPR!”

Woman: “Of course he does! I’m a nurse and I know what a heart attack looks like!”

Me: *still very dazed* “What’s going on?”

(As I try to sit up, I’m forced back down onto the concrete.)

Fiancé: “Enough! Heart palpitations and heart attacks may look similar but they aren’t! If he was having a heart attack, he’d have the classic symptoms! He passed out because he has [specific medical condition]! Look at his medical alert bracelet, for f***’s sake!”

Woman: “People who have [specific medical condition] usually have an alert dog, and he doesn’t. Now let someone with actual medical training work!” *turns to me* “Now, son, you’re having a heart attack. I need you to calm your breathing down and–”

(By now, I’ve regained consciousness enough to know what is going on. I am still dazed, as I usually am after an episode, but I know this woman is full of it.)

Me: *sits up slowly, glaring at the woman before raising my medical alert bracelet* “I have [specific medical condition]. We are on holiday and I couldn’t bring my alert dog with me because she didn’t get her shots in time. Now, if you would kindly f*** off, all I want is some water and ice because I smacked my head when I fell.”

Woman: “How dare you speak to me like that?! I know what’s best for you! I’m a nurse!”

Me: “With all respect, kindly go f*** yourself. Any nurse would know the difference between palpitations and an infarction. I don’t know who you are, but if you try to do anything to me, I’m getting someone to call security and I’ll press charges.”

(The woman proceeded to yell, “I’m a nurse! I know what I’m doing!” and continued to scold my fianceé and me for “lying.” Security was called — by pro staff — and she was escorted away.)

(I am at the water park with my older brother, my fianceé, and her two younger brothers. Her youngest brother is deaf and speaks primarily using ASL. While we are waiting in line, my fianceé, her brother, and I are speaking to each other in ASL, making jokes about how hot it is. Behind us is a woman who grows quite huffy with us throughout the thirty-minute wait.)

Woman: *to us, raising her voice in a very angry, “motherly” tone* “How dare you make those signs with your hands?! I didn’t know [Park] allowed gang members into their parks! Despicable!”

Fiance: “We’re speaking sign; my brother is deaf and he can’t hear us.”

Woman: “I don’t want your excuses! I want you out of here!”

Fiance: “For talking with our hands? Lady, you’re off your meds if you think they’re going to kick us out for speaking sign language.”

Woman: “We’ll just see about that!” *stomps out of the line, presumably to find a security guard*

(We go through the rest of the line without seeing her, nor a security guard. We do see her when we get off the ride, however, being told by security that they won’t do anything.)

Woman: *at the top of her lungs, so everyone around the ride can hear* “That’s it! I’ll be speaking to Mr. [Park Founder] about this!”

Me: “I hope she has an ouija board!”

Related:
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 5
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 4
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 3
A Sad Sign Of The Times, Part 2
A Sad Sign Of The Times

I come from the Rust Belt. Joining the military to get good job training and post-service education benefits is pretty common in our area, and in 1982 my youngest sister enlisted in the Navy.

If you have ever been through boot camp, you are aware that the non-commissioned officers who act as drill instructors are a formidable bunch and can reduce a recruit to jelly with one ferocious glare. My sister, like the rest of her unit, was terrified of them.

One night, she was chosen to stand watch and dutifully set out to patrol the barracks, armed only with a heavy, Navy-issue flashlight. In the military, you always carry stuff in your left hand so your right is free for saluting. My sister was not yet “snapped in” to this, and from force of habit, during her watch had switched the flashlight to her right hand.

When the Petty Officer of the Watch showed up unexpectedly, [Sister], in a panic, snapped to attention and saluted. With her right, flashlight-bearing, hand.